Now like any good Texas story, I will take you on a ride and you will swear you are not going to reach your expected destination, yet somehow, every blacktop road coalesces into a place of community. This is a true story. I’d say names were changed to protect the innocent, but no one’s innocent in this tale. They are either guilty, or dead, or both.
Scene 1: Brumley Missionary Baptist church
Era: early 1980s
Location: Somewhere behind the pine curtain.
For those who survived and escaped, that’s Northeast Texas.
Setting: The sanctuary – which feels like anything but…
God’s house is approximately the size of a double wide trailer, built on a solid foundation of East Texas sandy loam.
Upshur County is known for growing fine sweet potatoes, impressive watermelons, and farm children of varied quality.
We Begin:
A small church in a tiny rural community is often not much different than a large family. Most are kin, and many branches loop back on one another and scandal can pop up fast as dock weed in the hayfield.
My 2nd cousin once removed was a lively character- wooden leg from the big war and a handshake that imitated a bass strike on a lure. Everybody liked Arlen… Aaaannd then he had an affair with the preacher’s wife. The preacher left. Arlen stayed. Arlen and his wife and kids and grandkids made up almost half the congregation. So it was a decision of ratios, ultimately. And you know, he was family…
Now the new preacher man draws the faithful and the social, the Amen corner and the silent staples.
My judgy Aunt Juanita holds a hell of a lot of sway for a woman in the church where many are silent but Duncans are loud. Quiet never filled a belly. Never stopped an ex-husband laying hands, so God helps those who refuse to be timid. Her second husband is a drunk, but he doesn’t raise a hand to her, so we all leave him be.
To hear Juanita tell it, I have yet to find my voice. Yellow haired sullen girl child of that trashy Edwards clan her sister took up with. Patsy could have married better and auntie never stops reminding her.
But that’s a story for another day…
Now back to the new preacher- shiny suit, hair black as a gusher straight from Spindletop and a smile just as oily, he caused every head to snap up one morning when apropos of nothing he yells:
“And the Homosexuals…”
Even the Amen corner is caught so unawares a mere querulous grunt the only accompaniment to the shuddering squeak of the air conditioning.
Was it there, Lord? The first stone flung by the man of God… Maybe chosen, maybe he chose- to lead a flock, comfort the sick, cast out demons in your name?
“And the Homosexuals…”
Was that the first stone, formed from bile, forged in fear, flung in hate, into a congregation of 22 housewives, ranchers, bank tellers, hairdressers… ultimately landing in the gut of a 14 year old bookish tomboy living in her head, too timid to even fill a plate at the revival dinners?
“And the Homosexuals…”
This new preacher man- what kind of name is Tullis Wade anyway? He’s not kin to any of us…
Did he have a target? Did he think he saw the devil here? Or did he pick a safe sin? Did he have an Amen kink?
I can almost forgive that because Jesus knows I do- can I get an Amen? Hallelujah. So like even a broken clock can be right twice a day he managed to cull the queer from the herd.
“And the Homosexuals…”
I refused to return.
Stomach trouble.
Scandal brewing if you live in plain view of the church building.
Itchy, ugly Sunday dresses rent asunder, dysphoric panty hose snagged, clunky church shoes snapped.
Naked defiance enough to incur the wrath of God.
Worse than that, I had angered my mama. Maybe not angered as much as embarrassed. Patsy Edwards was the kind of woman that always sat on the back row in church because she didn’t like thinking anybody was passing judgement on the back of her hair. Imagine her horror at having to come up with some new story every week to explain my absence…
“And the Homosexuals…”
When Mama’s excuses ran thin the slippery shepherd appears at my door. A pastoral visit.
Dangles the Kingdom of Heaven like a prize in a crane game where every play wins a mansion and streets lined with gold.
Didn’t the devil tempt Jesus too?
I stay strong. Politely decline. He has no more treasures to pull from his magic bag.
Except maybe a Chick tract. That sounds sexier than it is. I had a bit of an affinity for those terrifying tiny evangelical cartoon books… but I bought scary comic books from the grocery store for the same reason, so I stay silent.
What can you say to a stiff necked ugly child that quietly declines eternal life?
“And the Homosexuals…”
Next week the deacons had heard enough. That one trick pony with a fixation on big city sin didn’t work in farm and ranch country. My mama told me that preacher said some pretty unholy words when the church elders decided it was time to go a different direction. I hear tell my loud aunt Juanita out cussed him till the door slammed behind him and she never changed the rhythm of her Last Supper hand fan while doing it.
I did return to the little church across FM 2454 when they got another new preacher. I think this one was kin on the Taylor side… I go mainly to please my Mama. Lord knows I’d do anything to please my mama.
These days- I’m a Methodist – and I don’t read scary comics anymore.
The stones in my belly have been surgically removed. I can show you the scars if you are one who doubts.
“And the Homosexuals…”
Are welcome here.
