The Heart of the Matter, Part 2

Tell a lie big enough an’ long enough an’ people will believe it.

Audio narration coming soon to YouTube.

My parents landed in Florida durin’ the Eisenhower Era. Of course, it didn’t get that name ‘til we were well into the 60s, when black folks, women, homosexuals an’ others like ‘em started makin’ a fuss about bein’ left out of the good-time party our 34^th president had directed.

By that time, the country had fallen headfirst into the age of protests, sit-ins, an’ walkouts. But in the late 1950s, all that mess was safely tucked away, hidden deep, like heartwood. For now, war was over an’ most folks were happy to finally be able to live in peace an’ quiet.

Down here in the panhandle, almost nobody had air conditionin’ so the heat an’ humidity that ruled nearly ever’ day of the year became the ultimate authority. It required hushed tones an’ a light touch, ‘specially in spring an’ summer. There just wasn’t enough energy for much more’n that.

December an’ January gave a respite to the hottest days, but that mid-summer slow motion held on anyway, even though midday temperatures hardly reached the 70s. When we arrived in December 1958, it looked nothin’ like summer in the South, when hot, humid air covers you like a blanket.

Winter in the north with its ice an’ snow, quickly became a distant memory. Mama used to say the sugar-white sand looked like snow but that was where similarities ended. Ever’thing was different, an’ at least in the beginnin’, it was a welcome change.

This was the start of a whirlwind learnin’ experience for all of us.

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Livin’ hundreds of miles from the place you always called home, there are a few things that must be tended to right away: findin’ a place to live, a school for the kids, a family doctor, an’ the most important thing of all—a church. Mama said findin’ a church was the best way to get settled. This one act could provide answers to all the other needs that came before it.

After only a brief consideration of a much larger Baptist Church in Milton, we chose the Baptist Church in Bagdad. With around 150 regular attendees, it provided activities for my older siblings an’ even a nursery an’ pre-school for me. That gave my parents at least one hour on the first day of the week to sit in peace without their children in tow.

The only problem was that Mama an’ Daddy hadn’t been married nearly long enough to produce five children, aged 13 months to 13 years. This had to be fixed, so we became the Phillips’ family, newly settled here from Springdale, Arkansas, where Daddy had been a successful farmer. That’s all true, of course. It’s just not the whole truth.

“Oh, yes, these are our children.” Cue sons an’ daughters to line up an’ say “nice to meet you” as introductions were made. No last names, please. That’d make ever’body uneasy.

Like most small churches, regular attendees had their own seat, a place where only they found their spiritual respite. Unlike the days of years gone by, when you could buy a place to sit in church, it wasn’t so much that you owned it legally. But once you’d been sittin’ long enough in a particular pew, an’ once you’d givin’ enough money while sittin’ in that pew, this was your seat. Nobody else’s.

I didn’t mind goin’ to church so much. It was the gettin’ to our pew part that I dreaded. I had to put up with the antics of a old man who sat all alone, real close to the aisle, just so he could tease me when I came in carryin’ my Tony the Tiger stuffed cat. He thought it was cute to tickle me an’ try to take Tony away. I realize now that it was all fun an’ games to him, but I hated it. He scared the hell out of me an’ all I could do was cry.

Once, just before we walked in, Mama knelt down an’ asked me, “Please be nice to that old man, just this one time. Can you do that for me, baby?”

I’s just about two years old an’ ever’thing was so much bigger’n me. Ever’where I went I had to look up to see what was goin’ on, an’ I felt small. But when I had to walk by that old man, I felt even smaller. I never got used to him or his little game but that day as I walked by his pew, I smiled instead of cried. It made my mother happy an’ she told me so.

Baptist churches in the Florida panhandle held services on Sunday mornin’ an’ Sunday night. If you came to both, ever’one held you in high esteem. You were one of the chosen few who truly loved the Lord. But if you returned on Wednesday for the mid-week bible study? Well now you got your own “sold-out-for-Jesus” pedestal. Our family’s pedestals lined up like descendin’ stair steps startin’ with my Daddy who was the oldest an’ tallest an’ endin’ with me, the youngest an’ smallest.

The only reason for not goin’ to church ever’ time the doors were opened was illness an’ you had better be pretty darn sick if you expected to miss even then. This rule was so hard an’ fast that I’d be grown an’ moved away before I actually got to see The Wizard of Oz from start to finish. It was sheer torture that my favorite childhood movie was ALWAYS shown on a Sunday night.

I always had just enough time to watch Dorothy fall into the pig pen, meet Professor Marvel, face the fury of Almira Gulch an’ miss her chance to get into the storm cellar before risin’ up with Toto to fly through the Kansas sky. That’s right about when we’d have to leave. One time I got to see the house come back to earth. But I never got to see the beauty on the other side of the door. Not as a child, anyway.

To add insult to injury, we always seemed to get home just as ever’thing went back to black an’ white—just as Dorothy was openin’ her eyes, back home in Kansas where she belonged. I think I got to see those beautiful ruby slippers clickin’ their way back home one time, an’ it only served to multiply my pain. But this was the misery that must be endured if one is to keep her place on a pedestal in the Baptist church.

Church could be pretty borin’ for a little girl, but one thing I did enjoy was standin’ on our pew beside my mother. I loved squeezin’ her ice-cold ear lobes between my fingers. It didn’t matter how hot the day was, her ears were always freezin’ cold. They seemed to be the only consistently cool thing around. That, an’ the tiny, air-conditioned grocery store across the street that had a metal sign on the front door that said: Welcome! It’s “KOOL” inside! From the pew where I stood, I could look out the window an’ see it.

A long green an’ white metal bar stretched across the middle of the screen door, where a penguin sat next to a pack of cigarettes. The word KOOL had icicles hangin’ from ever’ letter. Right below it was the Sunbeam Bread Sign. I always figured that pretty little blonde-haired girl eatin’ that slice of white bread musta been sittin’ inside that store when they took that picture, ‘cause she looked like she never got hot.

On one particular swelterin’ summer evenin’, while I’s standin’ on our pew lookin’ out the window, ever’thing went south for our family.

On that hot Sunday night in the dead of summer, a service of baptism was scheduled. All the church windows were wide open, an’ three large white fans hung along the highest pitch of the ceilin’, slowly stirrin’ the hottest air of the day back down on our heads.

Almost ever’one in the room had grown up in this kind of heat. It was just how things were, so their sufferin’ became just one more misery to ignore. But it made for good theater when the preacher got to the point in his sermon where he pounded the pulpit with his Bible an’ railed on the horrors of Hell an’ how we all deserved to go there. You could feel the flames lickin’ at your feet in that summertime heat.

On this particular night, however, God musta been smilin’, ‘cause the early evenin’ air got a little bit lighter an’ a little bit cooler. A breeze danced its way past the live oaks in the church yard outside an’ through the windows, waltzin’ across my face. That breeze was my best friend. It brought the promise of rain an’ whenever it showed up, I knew God wasn’t far away.

Just as it started to get dark outside, the service ended, an’ the pastor announced that Darline Phillips—my Mama—was gonna be baptized. Anyone who wanted to stay an’ witness it was welcome to do so. I had no idea what it meant to be baptized, but ever’body else did. An’ I just want to tell you that this changed ever’thing.

In a split second, that hot-as-hell room went ice cold. I shivered a little as people started whisperin’ an’ talkin’ to their neighbors in very disapprovin’ tones. I’s young, I know, but I wasn’t stupid. I had eyes to see an’ ears to hear, an’ I knew somethin’ didn’t feel right.

Mama got up an’ walked to the front of the church as the pastor said a few more things that made no sense to me. She stepped through a door that led to the changin’ room where she’d put on her baptism clothes. That’s when all hell broke loose. Right there in the middle of a rare moment of summer cool, as my Mama walked forward, ever’body else got up an’ walked out!

Standin’ there on the pew, I turned to watch people leave the room. I asked Daddy where ever’body was goin’ an’ he just told me to “Hush up an’ sit down.” Well, that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Hush up? Sit down? Why? If I did, I wouldn’t be able to see a thing. For once, church was gettin’ interestin’ an’ I wasn’t about to miss it.

In the end, along with me, Daddy an’ my brothers an’ sisters, ‘bout a dozen people decided to stay for the show. Ever’ other “weary soul”, as the pastor put it, about a hundred people in all, left in protest. An’ that old man—my tormentor—was one of ‘em! I knew he couldn’t be trusted.

In the Baptist Church, baptism is a one an’ done kind of thing. It mirrors the moment you asked forgiveness of your sins, gave your heart to Jesus, an’ became a born-again believer bound for heaven, escapin’ the fiery tortures of hell when you died. Once you’ve made this choice, it cannot be undone.

My Mama had been a professin’ Christian as long as she could remember. She had been baptized as a child. An’, like salvation, there’s never a need to do it again.

However, I learned much later that my mother had only pretended to be a Christian. The scandal of her parent’s divorce had killed her faith an’ the God behind it. She hated her Daddy for what he’d done. If she was a believer, God would want her to forgive him an’ there was no way that was gonna happen. Better to be an undercover atheist, I suppose.

Mama had fooled ever’one an’ most of the upstandin’ members of First Baptist Church of Bagdad, many who had their own special pedestals, just couldn’t accept it. In the two short years we had attended there, she’d taught Sunday School, worked on nearly ever’ committee in the church, an’ was one of the best cooks in the kitchen! If they stayed for the baptism, they’d be admittin’ they’d been taken in by her lie. They all said she was losin’ her mind an’ takin’ her Christianity a bit too far. But they’s missin’ some pretty important pieces of the story.

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In 1961, when Mama was readin’ the gospel of John, preparin’ to teach a Sunday School class about a God she didn’t believe in, her deep-seeded anger boiled over. Lookin’ up at the plywood ceilin’ of our tiny streamline trailer, she yelled out that if God was real, she wanted him to prove it, right now. She was sick an’ tired of bein’ a phony an’ she wasn’t gonna do it anymore. She’d either be a Christian for real or let ever’one know she was a heartless, God-less atheist. Her church friends could think of her whatever they wanted. She was not gonna be a hypocrite anymore!

Her angry scream reverberated through the air like the rumble of fighter jets takin’ off on a trial run from the Naval Air Station at Whiting Field. It was a sound you could feel as much as hear.

When the waves of her desperate cries made their way past the moon an’ went streakin’ toward the edge of the universe, ever’thing changed. With breakneck speed that’d give anybody else spiritual whiplash, Mama became a True Believer.

All at once, she felt loved—really loved—an’ somehow, she knew God was real. So, she knelt down by her bed an’ gave her heart to Jesus, askin’ him to forgive her sins an’ let her go to heaven when she died. An’ that, my friends, was that.

Ever’ burden was lifted as my Mama was filled with joy. She felt love for ever’body. Even her father. I’m told that she went runnin’ down the road wavin’ her Bible an’ shoutin’, “There is a God! It’s all true! Jesus loves me!”

I wish I could remember it. What a sight that musta been. She had the answer ever’body needed an’ she wanted to share the gospel of Jesus with anyone who would listen. She was sure her story of salvation would change the world, an’ in her opinion, it really needed changin’ right about then.

This is what led to the service of Baptism that emptied out the First Baptist Church of Bagdad on a hot Sunday night. She wasn’t about to keep her salvation a secret.

Mama had been baptized years ago, back when she was a young girl just pretendin’ to believe. So that baptism didn’t take. It didn’t count. Now that she had given her heart to Jesus for real, she had to get dunked again.

In our church, immersion in the waters of baptism was the outward expression of the inward transformation that happened when a soul was redeemed. Mama couldn’t wait to be baptized. Once that was done, tellin’ others about Jesus was the greatest joy of her life. She couldn’t stop talkin’ about how happy she was to be a Christian.

Well, if Mama was really, really happy, then my Daddy was really, really embarrassed. He told her, “Calm down, Darline. You’re goin’ overboard an’ you look like a fool.” What a letdown! Her bubble of joy burst wide open an’ all the air was sucked right out of the room.

She had given her heart to Jesus, an’ the heart of the matter became her reason to live. She was filled with the joy of the Lord, but Daddy wasn’t havin’ any of it. ‘Course, she had to do what he said ‘cause she was a woman an’ he was a man, an’ that would make the God she now believed in happy. Even though she hadn’t been a true believer all those years, she had been studyin’ the bible an’ she knew what it said. Husbands were the head of the family, an’ wives should always follow. No matter what.

For the Fundamental Evangelical Independent Baptist Church of the Deep South, this is one of the most important tenets at the heart of the matter. God, the Father, is the final authority. His Son, Jesus, is next in line as Head of the Church. The church is made up of people who make up families—one man and one woman married for life an’ the man is always the head of the woman.

So, as Mama’s joy took a left turn right off the road of happiness that day, she sulked an’ fumed an’ began to connive an’ finagle (her words, by the way) how she could change the world without Daddy knowin’ about it. She must appear to follow him at all times while disguisin’ what was actually held in her heart.

Ironic, isn’t it? That a heart so freshly given to Jesus Christ her Lord an’ Savior, cleansed by the blood of the Lamb, must immediately be stained by deceit.

When Mama stepped into the baptismal pool at First Baptist Church of Bagdad, it didn’t matter if Daddy was embarrassed by her, or all of her friends thought she was crazy. What mattered most, what was at the heart of the matter, was that the world was goin’ to Hell an’ it was up to her to save it.

This was the biggest change of heart my Mama ever had.

That evenin’ at just about 8 o’clock, I stood there on the pew that belonged to my family, lookin’ around a nearly empty sanctuary. I’s three years old an’ I remember that moment well. Outside the rain started to fall an’ inside things finally cooled down. I don’t remember leavin’ the church that night or what happened in the weeks to follow, but it was a watershed moment.

A year later, I’s enrolled in Kindergarten at Santa Rosa Christian School. A year after that, our home became the meetin’ place of Garson Point Baptist Church.

Daddy never had a chance. Neither did I.

Audio narration coming soon to YouTube.