Fleeing Fundamentalism Page 11

  But after receiving a letter from Jean, who had recently arrived on the mission field in Mexico, I realized I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. God had called her and Doug to a small village near Guanajuato, where they lived in a tiny hut with no electricity or running water. Jean’s letter sounded sad, and I was suddenly thankful for all of the luxuries that accompanied being a minister’s wife in a nice church in America, even if people did peer in the windows and walk unannounced through the kitchen.

  The traffic that streamed through our house increased as the congregation grew that fall. When I discussed our lack of privacy with David, he always answered with what he called “the voice of reason,” a tone both sympathetic and evasive. “Of course we deserve to have some space to ourselves,” he said, “but for now we’re going to have to let these little inconveniences run off us like water off a duck’s back. Honey, this won’t last long. God has something great planned for this church and for us. We’ll be out of this parsonage and into a bigger place before you know it.” He hugged me to him, pressing me close against his chest. “Give me your hand,” he said, “the right one.” He spread it out, passing his palm over mine as though he wanted to clean it, to disencumber it of everything but the important things, dusting off the selfish things—the things of no concern to our future and a growing church. Then he smiled at me the way we smile at things that belong to us.

  David’s speculation was prophetic. It didn’t take long for word to get out that Calvary Baptist had a dynamic new minister. Every Sunday morning more fresh faces appeared and the church parking lot began to fill early, forcing a long procession of cars to snake farther and farther up and down the streets. The grounds swirled with energy as children raced across the balding lawn to meet their friends, darting around parents who introduced themselves to visitors. The elders didn’t even seem to care about the worn-out lawn, proclaiming with exuberance that in its long history, Calvary Baptist had never overflowed its capacity. It was exciting, even thrilling, to see the beautiful church packed tighter each Sunday with people who called out “Welcome, Brother,” and shouted “Amen” during the sermon. It was gratifying to watch the collection plate fill to the brim and know that it was because David was such a good preacher that all these people flooded into Calvary Baptist. It was a great life if you liked free stuff too: cars that people said they no longer needed, and wanted their minister to have; unexpected envelopes of money slipped into your hand before your upcoming vacation; tons of free vegetables and fruit from everyone’s garden.

  Within a year the church had added so many new members that it purchased the house next door for us to live in, turning the parsonage into an education center for children’s church and Sunday school classes. Church members remodeled the parsonage basement into a study for David that could also accommodate counseling sessions and board meetings. David began conducting four Sunday services, and the board discussed new building proposals now that the congregation was growing.

  Even in this whirlwind, David often seemed preoccupied. He’d drop out of mental sight, say, in a nice restaurant, going into a trans-fixed state, staring at the breadsticks in the wicker basket, or at the coffee cups or the appetizers in the middle of the table. I knew he was thinking about somewhere else, carrying on a serious conversation with persons unknown. I could almost see his lips moving. I ignored his emotional absences as much as possible and busied myself learning the nuances of being a good minister’s wife: entertaining and teaching children’s church (which I still didn’t like to do, though no one would have guessed); singing in the choir; baking casseroles for the infirm, the elderly, new mothers, shut-ins, church members in the hospital; organizing the Calvary Baptist prayer chain; and learning how to memorize hundreds of names as I greeted people filing in and out of services each Sunday. I began homeschooling the girls and enrolled them in ballet and tap lessons, keeping busy enough to hardly notice that David and I still hadn’t gotten away to the coast.

  Then, the second year, I added teaching women’s Bible study to the weekly agenda. David announced my new class from the pulpit, and the next Tuesday morning they arrived, their Bibles tucked quietly under their arms. First came Lydia, a tall, straight-lined woman with curly brown hair arranged on her head like a football helmet. She had an open, eager smile, lacking in any distinct cleverness but friendly. Behind her came Irene, wearing a baggy brown cardigan with an olive green skirt and tan ribbed stockings—appropriate for the retired Christian schoolteacher that she was. Next was Paula, a young mother of two—a bone-thin girl with a thoughtful, almost desperate quiet about her. I welcomed them in and offered them a cup of tea. Janet entered, darting a glance from side to side, sitting next to Paula—having come, I feared, to take mental notes and report back to the other elders’ wives.

  Then Susan walked through the door, and it was as if the Red Sea had parted. Her hair was dyed coal black and spiked short on top. She wore tight jeans and bright red lipstick; her cheekbones were high and glamorous, her eyes smoldering—even on a Tuesday morning, sensuality drenched her. I’d seen her for the first time on Sunday, just a glimpse of her as she strode out the back of the church in her formfitting blue tailored suit. I immediately liked her. She exuded the take-no-prisoners confidence of someone who would never think twice about making a move before she made it—first thought, best thought. She moved past me and flashed a knowing smile, as though we already shared a secret even though we’d never met. I was glad she was there. She must be new to religion, I thought.

  After everyone introduced themselves and gave a brief personal history, I found out that I was dead wrong. “My dad was the pastor of a very conservative Baptist church in South Dakota,” Susan said when it came her turn. “A tight lot. You know the story—no drinking, no cards, no dancing, no makeup. I graduated from Oral Roberts University and married my college sweetheart.” I could tell she took great pleasure in the look of shock that crossed everyone’s face. She was a wild child, held back only by the reigns of religion—Sea-biscuit ready to break out of the chute.

  After Bible study Susan whispered to me on the way out, “You’re gonna need a friend who understands this gig. Let’s have coffee. I’ll call.”

  That first class was small, but before we knew it the house was packed and buzzing with the kind of well-scrubbed middle-class Christian ladies you see photographed in a Baptist church directory: 700 Club viewers, Girl Scout leaders, PTA members. Some were quiet, others boisterous and ready to share their opinions. Women’s Bible study soon became a place where young mothers could meet with those who had raised their kids and exchange all the instructive anecdotes that women share: when the first teeth arrive, what to do when my two-year-old throws a tantrum, how much weight you gain during pregnancy. Everyone started coming early to chat and stayed late to share impromptu lunches. As they talked, I could see that the class had become a refuge for a group of lonely women who had little contact with the world apart from Sunday services and their respectable Christian homes. We started our study in the Gospel of John, then went through Colossians and Ruth. Then, one packed-to-capacity Tuesday morning, Paula uncharacteristically spoke out: “I have a question: How submissive does the Bible say we really have to be?”

  “Not as submissive as our Fundamentalist churches teach,” Susan piped up.

  “I’m sick of it myself,” Paula said. “When Herb and I were dating, the subject of submission never came up. Now he’s always pointing out my duty to defer to him as head of the household.”

  “I think a lot of men use the Bible to keep women beaten down because they’re threatened by our intelligence,” Irene added. Everyone laughed.

  “Amen,” Lydia shouted from the corner. “Since Peter attended that silly Basic Life conference, he treats me like I’m a second-class citizen. He claims it’s God’s will that I dress the way he likes—even wear my hair the way he wants it.”

  I secretly agreed with Lydia. For years David had attended the Basic Life conferences
. Bill Gothard had begun giving the seminars in the early 1970s, and since then millions of Christians had become avid devotees of his Fundamentalist principles. Although he himself had never married, he used both Old and New Testament verses to validate his teachings on marriage and family life, picking his way selectively through scripture like a happy truffle hog, rooting out only the morsels he wanted and leaving the rest—declaring certain Old Testament laws essential to Christian life while curiously ignoring others. He placed much of the blame for the breakdown of modern marriage on women’s resistance to male authority, tracing it right on back to Eve: “A wife now desires to control her husband.”

  After we married David had insisted that I attend a Basic Life conference with him, and so, along with thousands of other Christians, we crowded into the Seattle Coliseum. On the second day of the conference, a woman raised her hand. She said she had a Christian girlfriend who was being physically abused by her husband. “Wouldn’t it be appropriate for her to leave him and seek refuge?”

  “A policeman may have a terrible disposition,” Gothard intoned. “Still, that is no basis to disregard his instructions. God is working in your friend’s life to perfect her character of humility. She needs to read First Peter, two and three, and accept her suffering.”

  No one in the packed coliseum so much as flinched.

  I told the women in the class that I thought Gothard’s teachings were antiquated and that the church had often gotten carried away on the issue of women’s submission. Then, like the coward I was, I changed the subject. That night I stared at the ceiling while the clock ticked away the hours. The next day I called Susan. Since that first Bible study, she and I had become great friends, meeting clandestinely so that the other women in the congregation wouldn’t feel that we were spending too much time together. Susan remembered the grief her mother had gotten over the issue of playing favorites. “We’re going to have to keep things on the Q.T.,” she had said. “The church knitting circle will scream bloody murder if they see that you have a close friend.”

  Several sentences into our phone conversation, Susan said, “Hey, you sound like you need to talk about something—get on over here.”

  The August afternoon baked waves of heat up from the black-top as the kids and I arrived at Susan’s beautiful suburban home, surrounded by professional landscaping and a fleet of fancy vehicles. Her husband, Robert, had his own construction business and collected real estate the way a ten-year-old collects trading cards. Robert was a tall, muscular figure with a grave, long face. Deep lines were etched on either side of his mouth, and his eyes drooped in the corners. His voice was thick and harsh, and he didn’t look or sound to me as if he belonged with Susan, who had such a sunny, cheerful disposition. Susan made pretty good money herself, selling upscale kitchen cookware.

  As I walked into the house, the marble entryway felt exquisite and indulgent on my bare feet once I’d kicked off my sandals at the door. Carise, Micael, and Jason rushed to hug Susan’s two children, and the happy mob dashed toward the skyscraper jungle gym out back. My kids loved visiting Susan’s house because she kept them stuffed with ice cream bars, Lay’s potato chips, and Dad’s root beer. My charitable host mixed us two strong martinis (Susan had introduced me to the delights of good gin early in our relationship). Then we peeled down to our skimpy swimsuits, grabbed our sunglasses, and took refuge under the umbrella of her Ethan Allen lawn furniture. As always, grapes and kiwis, blueberries, provolone and Camembert, crackers, and biscuits were neatly arranged on her delicate English bone china. Whenever I marveled at her generosity, she’d say, “After wearing my brother’s hand-me-down loafers as a kid, I’m serving my friends only the best—it’s Bombay Sapphire for you, lady.” She lifted her chilled martini in a toast.

  For months Susan and I spent many stolen hours in her sunny backyard, gossiping and discussing world affairs, young motherhood, and the Religious Right’s attitude toward women. That afternoon a second martini took our discussion to a deeper level.

  “I was such a chickenshit yesterday,” I said. “I should have been truthful and said what I really thought—that the church has an appalling record in its treatment of women.”

  “Come on, like you could ever have gotten away with that. Janet would have taken your scalp right then and there—zip—clean off your seditious little head.” She laughed, “Anyway, what are good friends for? I answered the question for you—the way you wanted to.”

  I finished my drink.

  “Susan, I’ve never told you about the real relationship I have with David.”

  “Well, I’ve never told you about the real relationship I have with Robert either. So, you go first—there’s plenty of gin and lots of sunshine left.”

  I looked up to make sure that the kids were all out of earshot, safely swinging upside down, squealing and jabbing each other like sugar saturated monkeys.

  “David seems to get more controlling all the time. He’s even started checking the closets and cupboards to see that everything is lined up in perfect rows. The other day the silverware drawer didn’t pass inspection, so he flung the entire contents across the room. Then he said in this weird calm voice, ‘Maybe you’ll keep the cupboards in better order from now on.’ After that, he left the house and didn’t come back until late.”

  “How late?” Susan asked.

  “About eleven.”

  “Whoa. You’d never guess he’d be capable of acting like that, watching him up in the pulpit. Amazing!” She shook her head and took another sip.

  “And get this. Last week there was a single rose sitting on the front porch with my name attached to a card that read, ‘I love to watch you from a distance. A secret admirer.’ I was petrified, and when David finally got home that night, I showed it to him. He laughed and said, ‘Good for you. You passed the test. I wrote it to see if I could trust you.’”

  Susan stared at me from across the table. “My God … the guy needs therapy.”

  “And he’s starting to accuse me of being too chatty with other men after Sunday services. What—I’m supposed to stand at the back of the church and ignore anyone in pants? Like I’d have time for an affair anyway. I hardly have enough time to brush my teeth in the morning.”

  “Carlene, he’s gotta get some serious counseling.”

  “I don’t think he’d ever go,” I said. “He’s so proud of his reputation as a great counselor; he’d be petrified someone from the congregation might find out.”

  “Wouldn’t he go secretly?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Promise me you’ll try and get him to.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll try. So enough about my ghastly marriage—how about yours?” I said, hoping to erase the horrified look on Susan’s face.

  She got up, visibly shaken. “Damn, I need to stand up and process this for a minute. Not that I’m in a much better boat, only the chauvinism around here is a little more traditional.”

  Susan shifted her sunglasses to the top of her head and stepped inside the house. I could hear her grinding beans and scooping them into her shiny stainless steel Krups coffeemaker as I watched the kids kicking a soccer ball across the lawn. She brought out two black coffees and set them on the glass table, then slumped down into her deck chair across from me and pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes. “Robert constantly makes decisions without consulting me—big financial ones. Like he’ll just go out and buy a piece of property and then casually mention it weeks later. Whenever I object to being ignored in the process, he tells me that God has appointed him head of the household and I should keep my opinions to myself.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said.

  “He even decides where we’re going on vacation without consulting me. If I object, he says, ‘I’ll just go by myself.’ And then he does. I’ve started to have this fantasy that when he’s on one of those dangerous river rafting excursions he loves so much, his boat will capsize and he’ll drown,” she said nonchalantly, taking a l
ong sip of her coffee and gazing absently at the running, shrieking children. “The bottom line is, we’re trapped, you and I. The Bible says that we’re in this for life. And even though I think the church is screwed up in many ways, I believe that Christians are bound by the Word of God.”

  On the way home I thought about how Susan had so casually wished her husband dead. It chilled me and, knowing what a generous woman she was, made me suspect that the verbal abuse she endured was probably worse than she had revealed. But she was right about the Bible. The Gospel of Matthew did make it clear that unless David or Robert had affairs, our marriage commitments were unbreakable in the eyes of God. Besides, I was determined that my marriage would work. Susan was right—I should insist on counseling. But the thought of suggesting such a thing to David made a cold bolt of fear shoot through my chest. Maybe I’d bring it up after we got back from the pastor’s conference we were attending the next week.

  Each year, ministerial couples from throughout the Northwest converged on the Christian campground at Black Lake Conference Center near Olympia for the annual getaway. David and I were returning for our third year to the forested grounds set about with tiny log cabins, a mess hall, and a chapel that looked out onto a deep, black lake. But this year after we arrived, I suddenly had a new awareness of the women around me as they stood mute next to their husbands, who were busy one-upping each other with talk of bigger programs and building proposals. In the morning I watched solitary female figures wandering through camp, apparently without the energy or inclination to interact, simply roaming the dirt pathways alone. In the afternoons when the men met to discuss church growth, the women were ushered away to receive pointers on how to become better ministers’ wives—much like the talk that I had heard years before at the Bible college.