My first exposure to what I will charitably call a fearful attitude arising from wrong headed expectations took place just a few months after I trusted Christ and was baptized. Ironically, it wasn’t at the hands of a blue haired elderly lady, but rather from the pastor of the church I had recently joined as a brand new Christian. One Sunday morning after the service, I stopped to tell the pastor not only that I had enjoyed his message, but also to explain why I had missed church the Sunday before, as well as choir practice and the Wednesday prayer service that week. Thinking he would be glad to hear that I had attended services conducted by a man of faith who was walking around with 7 terminal diseases (I am not exaggerating – some of you may well know who I mean), I was taken aback by the pastor’s response!
“God gives me the messages for the members of this church.” His words were one thing, but his look was withering! I instantly understood what he was telling me, “Don’t ever think you have my permission to run off to another church, I don’t care who’s preaching!”
Here was an expectation that took me unawares. Although I sensed at the time that his attitude wasn’t right, and more than a little judgmental, I had no earthly idea how to react. I really don’t remember what I said, or even if I said anything at all to him at the time. He was the pastor after all, and the people in that church were either supportive to a fault, or vicious beyond belief. Looking back now, all these years later, I think maybe he was just a little afraid, and so he defined a specific set of expectations that it seemed everyone but me fully understood.
Our pastor might have sensed that the culture was in the throes of a massive change that he was powerless to stop. After all, this was the early 1970s. Perhaps he feared for his children and grandchildren who would face a world that looked very different from the world in which he grew up, and that he longed for in their lives. As a father and grandfather in the 21st Century, I understand that fear much better now than I did back then. But in 1974, the pastor was still very much the one in charge, and the one assigned the task of protecting this flock from the big bad world out there that continued to assault God and His church. The way to ensure survival was to set up expectations using standards that I later understood were often more cultural than biblical.
I had heard just a few weeks earlier, during a Sunday School class taught by the music director, that we were not to bring a ‘railing accusation’ against God’s man. In fact, the director made very clear what was expected of every church member in that church.
Why, “I set my watch by this pastor, and as members of his flock, we should all listen to what he says and follow his example.”
Again, I wasn’t too sure what to make of such a statement, but I was just a brand-new believer and was not able to articulate why that didn’t sound quite right. At the age of twenty-one, having become a church member for the first time, I was drinking in as much of this Church thing, this Christian way of life, as I could. Ah yes, the ‘Christian’ lifestyle! Believe me, it is packed with endless expectations for those brave enough to enter the fray! I soon discovered that, at least in this church, expectations were well defined and written down. I have a passable second tenor voice, and love to sing. As I began to gain confidence and to learn some of the great hymns of the faith, I started attending choir practice in the hope that I would be able to sing with the choir on Sunday mornings. I had warbled my way through Junior and Senior High schools singing in the choirs, in school musicals, and competing in state auditions. Imagine my chagrin when I asked the choir director if I could join his choir, and he didn’t ask me any questions about the treble or bass clef. He didn’t have me sing or try out – instead, he handed me a piece of paper with a list of rules that I would need to sign before I would be allowed to ‘minister’ (whatever that was), with the choir. What in the world were these people afraid was going to happen if my hair touched my ears? I was puzzled, and though I understand it better today, I wish I had known what to say back then that might have been encouraging to these folks, though, I don’t think most of them were ready to listen anyway.
I was told the rules were designed to ensure that choir members set the best possible example of what it means to live a Godly life. Another expectation, in fact, an entire set of them was placed before me, in writing, requiring my signature. I clearly remember the rules, though I long ago threw away my copy. They included such important biblical commands as promising to, “keep my hair short,” as in “not touching my ears,” and, of course, I would agree not to attend movies, or drink alcohol, or hold hands with girls (I am NOT exaggerating), or miss church, including Sunday night and Wednesday night services, to say nothing of mandatory choir practices, and Thursday night visitation. Women promised by their signatures not to have short hair, and under no circumstances would they be caught wearing the dreaded mini-skirt, or even a handsome pair of women’s slacks. None of the rules that applied to me were particularly burdensome at the time. I was in the military, and though drinking was a lot more prevalent, and even sanctioned on the base back then, I thought I could abstain without too much of an issue. Once again, even though I signed the rules, I suspected that something was not quite right with all this, though I couldn’t say for sure what, or why.
As more and more questions began to surface in my mind, I eventually went to the pastor and asked him about the rules.
“Where in the Bible does it say I have to keep my hair short, and can’t go to movies? They didn’t even have movies back then!”
The pastor looked at me rather severely, reached into a desk drawer, and pulled out a book.
“Read this book by two of the Godliest men I know, and then let’s talk again.”
I thanked him as I walked out of the pastor’s study with an even larger set of expectations than I had entered with. I don’t have any idea what the book was called, but I do remember a couple of things about that particular book. First, on the cover, were two men dressed in identical blue suits. Both men sported heavy black framed glasses, and, as one might expect, they both had short hair that did not touch their ears. The book spoke about the need for Christians to keep Godly standards so we wouldn’t “ruin our testimonies” for Christ. “Doth not even nature itself teach you, that if a man have long hair, it is a shame unto him?” (1 Corinthians 11:14 KJV) Here was proof positive that God was opposed to men wearing long hair. Never mind that Paul doesn’t define short hair as ‘above the ears,’ the Authorized King James Version has spoken! Woe to the first year Christian who dared to even ask the question, not to mention who failed to meet the expectations related on page after page of this church sanctioned volume.
The next Sunday evening I walked into the worship service a little late. The pastor was standing on the platform next to the pulpit setting up an easel on which he placed a large poster board. As he began to speak (I don’t remember the Scripture he used), he moved to one end of the poster board and said something to this effect,
“2000 years ago, the church was born. Down through the centuries men have changed her, and not for the better!”
He indicated several points on the time line of church history he had drawn on the poster, then moved to the very end pointing to our very day.
“A young man came to see me this week with questions about God’s standards. Today we must return to the days of the Apostles! We must not compromise God’s holiness for the sake of our own pleasures and preferences! Through the centuries much of the church has become corrupt, but we, in this church, will continue to fight the good fight, to run the race with endurance, and we will never compromise God’s message, or His standards of holiness!”
The man spoke with such passion and authority. Perhaps what he was saying was biblical truth. But here again, I knew instinctively that something was off. I just didn’t exactly know what it was or why. Maybe the pastor thought I would bring ‘liberal’ notions into the church and start us down the slippery slope to apostasy just by asking questions. Perhaps he sincerely was just afraid of change. Little did I know that day, that I would soon find out just how far that fear extended.
The church wide picnic took place on a beautiful Saturday in September at the home of one of the leading deacons of the church. The pastor was there with his family, as was the choir director, the deacons and their families, and many of the church families who were not counted among the leaders attended as well. I was there that day enjoying the festivities. The air was filled with the aroma of hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on two huge charcoal grills. The clanging of horseshoes around metal stakes was accompanied by shouts of ‘got it closer,’ or, ‘you’ll have to measure to make sure, and ‘wringer!’ Across the yard you could hear the thump, thump, thump, of the volleyball as the players tapped the ball back and forth across the net with audible grunts and groans, followed by the inevitable sounds of disappointment or triumph from one side or the other at the sight of the inevitable spike that won the point. No curse words pierced the air. Such colorful language as ‘gosh darn it,’ or ‘golly Moses,’ were code words for taking the Lord’s Name in vain and thus not even these seemingly innocuous phrases were uttered by God’s well-trained people.
Suddenly, on this otherwise quiet residential street, I looked up and noticed an old beat up blue Oldsmobile pull into the driveway where the picnic was in full swing. Having just finished a game of horseshoes, I nonchalantly walked over next to the driveway a few feet behind the Oldsmobile. There were two people in the car. The driver’s side door slowly creaked open, and sandaled feet swung toward the concrete driveway followed by a pair of long legs draped in tattered bell bottom pants. As the young man stood up wearing a tidied shirt, long, stringy hair cascaded half way down his back. He slowly shook his head from side to side as if trying to somehow clear his mind. From the passenger side, this young man’s female twin emerged wearing almost identical clothes, and with the same long stringy hair falling all the way down to her waist. They both bore razor thin frames, and I distinctly remember thinking that they didn’t appear too sanitary.
From behind me and to the right I heard someone coming up fast. I was startled to see the pastor, who stood about 6’4″ with short gray hair, striding with determined steps straight for the car. Next to him strode the deacon. He was a short and stocky man in his 40s wearing a white short sleeve shirt with a pack of Marlboro cigarettes rolled up in one sleeve. In his right hand he carried a baseball bat. The two men rushed forward, and as the deacon brandished the bat toward the two hippies, he shouted at the top of his lungs,
“You get off my property before I call the cops!!”
What happened next is etched in my memory more than forty-five years later. The driver looked from the bat to the deacon to the pastor, and then his eyes rested on me as he said in a trembling voice,
“We just smelled the food, and we are really hungry.”
That didn’t faze the pastor or the deacon at all as the deacon continued brandishing the bat. Quickly, the two young people simply got back in the Oldsmobile, backed out of the driveway, and drove away.
Admittedly I found myself more puzzled than ever! Didn’t the Bible say something about caring for the poor, to say nothing about the command to share Christ with those who are lost? I got into my 1974 Plymouth Valiant after the picnic ended and headed toward the barracks with many more questions than answers. Sadly, the hippies in the driveway incident wasn’t the final straw, though it should have been, that caused me to leave that church. Over the following few weeks other things happened that eventually led to my exit.
Perhaps because I was such a new Christian, one of the other deacons at this church decided that he would invite me to his home so we could listen to a radio broadcast of one of his favorite preachers from Chattanooga. This once a week meeting often included a meal attended by other members of the church. Honestly, I enjoyed these meetings, and I especially learned much from listening to the preaching. But I also discovered something unpleasant – a certain attitude – a blue hair attitude – was present during the meal times. I remember one particular dinner where not only was ‘roast pastor’ served, but ‘roast pastor’s wife’ featured prominently on the menu. The pastor’s wife, the committed example of Godliness to all other women in the church and community, the wife and mother committed to God’s standards as a way of life, had done the unthinkable. She had cut her long flowing locks and now sported short hair. Judging from the harsh words I heard that night, the pastor’s wife had managed to do something that must have been truly scandalous. Obviously, she failed to live up to her congregation’s expectations for the pastor’s wife.
“How could she!!!”
“Doesn’t she know what a poor example she is to our children and the other young women who attend our church? That pastor really needs to take hold of his wife or there are going to be REAL problems in this church!” I guess the pastor was failing to meet expectations as well.
The ladies at the meal were mean! They were vicious! And most of all, they were self-righteous! OK – to be charitable, maybe they were just afraid; afraid that their children would abandon the faith – maybe they were afraid that if they let the pastor’s wife violate this rule, it would be only a short trip to abandoning the authority of Scripture, or to the slippery slope of compromise in untold numbers of areas that would be detrimental to the church. Once again, as I listened to the vitriol spewed out against the pastor and his wife, I knew instinctively that something was very, very wrong with the attitudes I was witnessing, to say nothing of the misguided expectations these people demanded of their leaders, though I hadn’t learned enough Scripture to explain the problem. I knew I was tired of all the sniping I heard about hair lengths and TV watching and movies, but I still wasn’t ready to change churches until one more attitude surfaced on a Sunday morning in June that manifested a truly unbiblical expectation. It was a cultural expectation generated by fear.
I was standing at the church door when an African American couple entered the sanctuary to join in worship. My deacon friend with whom I listened to the preacher from Chattanooga was standing nearby, and so I asked him,
“Why is it that we don’t have any blacks in our church?” A frown covered his brow as he replied,
“Well, we used to have a lot of blacks coming in here. But it got to be there were too many, and so we got together and built them a church of their own about five miles from here.”
I didn’t need a Bible verse to tell me that was wrong! And no verse they could come up with would ever convince me that separating over the color of someone’s skin served a legitimate purpose. This separation was no biblical expectation. It was a cultural one. In the days before 1975, I suppose such expectations were still alive and well. Sadly, such repressive cultural expectations had not ended after the Civil Rights Movement, but only moved underground. After having spent the better part of nine months as a member of that church, I earnestly began looking for somewhere else to worship.