Country Church Drama
Gordon and Beverley did not know whether to laugh or cry when they realized the dreadful truth. Despite their faith and prayers the ship had actually sailed without them. Now what were they going to do?
Beverley’s mother came to the rescue and provided accommodation. For two weeks the Moyes’ family slept on the floor in her house.
Crestfallen and embarrassed Gordon notified the Church officials in Melbourne of their predicament and they magnaminously solved the financial crisis by offering Gordon a temporary appointment at a small country church in Ararat.
“I’ve heard of the difficulties in that church,” Gordon grumbled to Beverley. “I don’t really know what it’s all about. Maybe some kind of a power struggle but,” he paused dramatically and threw his arms wide, “beggars can’t be choosers, Bev, we’re in no position to bargain. Without money, job, car or house, I’m glad to accept anything.”
“I think it’s very good of them,” Beverley spooned cereal into Jenny’s reluctant mouth. “It will tide us over until we can get new visas.”
It was a blistering hot, typical January day when the Moyes arrived in Ararat and viewed the manse with its rusted tin roof, peeling paint, and front gate swinging on broken hinges. With sinking hearts the young couple brushed aside tangled weeds and trudged up the path to the verandah steps.
If the outside of the house looked neglected, the inside was even worse. The front door opened into a hall and off the hall several other doors led into rooms where brittle linoleum, so old that it bore no discernible pattern, covered the creaking floors. An ancient iron bedstead with sagging springs and lumpy mattress stood against one wall of the front bedroom and a battered dresser with a chipped mirror and scratched paint adorned the opposite wall. The lounge room boasted a few wooden chairs and an old sofa that looked as if it had been used as a fowl roost.
But it was the kitchen, that heart of family living, which nearly broke Beverley’s spirit. There were no facilities to make a quick cup of tea. The room contained a cracked, barely functional wood-burning cookstove, a wobbly table and two battered chairs. She peered into one of the cupboards and found a few pieces of crockery and cutlery which the kind-hearted church folks had rustled up for the destitute newcomers.
“At least we hope we won’t be here for long.” She sighed and looked about her. “Do you have any matches, Gordon? Can you make up some sort of a fire? I have to heat water for Jenny’s bath.”
In a box on the back verandah Gordon found enough paper and kindling to make a fire in the ancient stove and then he went outside to reconnoitre the backyard. Next door to the manse on one side stood a large iron shed. A crooked sign on the front door proclaimed that the place belonged to a plumber. The shed, roof and fence were all of rusted corrugated iron.
On the other side of the manse waist-high dry grass covered a desolate vacant paddock next door to the church. The cement-rendered brick church was painted a battleship grey which, considering the wars the congregation had been through, seemed a most appropriate colour choice. Patches of peeling paint spoiled the look of the arched front door and the glass in one of the main windows was cracked.
Gordon sighed as Beverley had done, and like he her he agreed that there was only one encouraging aspect about the whole sad situation—it would not be for long. In another six months they would have their visas and be off to America, ready to begin study the following term.
It took only minutes to unload the few possessions they had acquired from their parents and family members, then Gordon left Beverley to unpack the two suitcases and he drove their borrowed car down to the shops to look for a hardware store.
“What can I do to preserve a rusting iron fence?” he asked the man who ambled forward to serve him.
“Rub it down with a wire brush to get off all the rust, then paint it with zinc chromate. That oughta fix it.” The tall, freckle-faced man behind the counter, sounded as though he knew from experience what he was talking about.
“Right. I want two 4 gallon tins of zinc chromate and two wire brushes and two paint brushes, please.”
In the long twilight of their first night in Ararat Gordon and Beverley worked hard scrubbing down the rusted iron fence. Then Gordon applied a first coat of zinc chromate. The store man had not told him that zinc chromate was bright yellow and even as Gordon finished the job by moonlight, the glaring colour stood out like a neon sign.
There was nothing he could do to make the wretched old manse more livable so he concentrated on the church. The next day he scrubbed the peeling paint off the front doors and painted them bright red. In some way he felt that he was making a statement, the church members would surely notice the difference and realize that somebody new was in charge.
He was correct. When Gordon and Beverley and little Jenny walked along to the church on Sunday morning the members were standing goggle-eyed outside the attention-getting doors, discussing the change. Who had done it? Who gave this unknown person the authority? Who paid for the paint?
That was only the beginning. During the service Gordon introduced himself and announced that a youth club would commence on Friday night and meet in the Moyes’ home.
“Then there will be a boys’ gym club on Tuesday nights in the church hall, and I’ll conduct a new series of Bible studies on Wednesday nights. Furthermore, we’ll begin a Sunday School the following Sunday and there will be a church family picnic on Monday, January 26, to celebrate Australia’s National Day.”
Even as he made the announcements Gordon wondered whether he was being a bit ambitious. He was giving himself exactly one week in which to recruit and train teachers for the Sunday School and leaders for the youth club and the boys’ club. Besides having to obtain materials and equipment and organize all the facilities. But he was determined to show this country church what could happen when a qualified minister took charge.
By the looks on their faces Gordon guessed that the congregation were asking each other: “Who does this young fellow think he is? Who sent him here? Where’s he getting the money for all his grand plans?
He found out later that the church was agog. The factions did not know whose side this new fellow was on. It appeared that he just barged full steam ahead without asking anyone’s permission or advice about anything. They shook their heads in disbelief as they came out of church that hot summer morning. People who had not spoken to each other in months now volubly discussed the new minister. There was no time for in-fighting, both sides had been taken by surprise and would have to stand together if this man proved to be a common foe.
Seemingly the church members all agreed that one thing had to be taken care of immediately. The yellow fence could not remain. Several of the men went to Gordon and volunteered to come each night after work and help finish painting the iron with undercoat and then put on a topcoat of some respectable colour—such as battleship grey.
Monday morning Gordon was in the spare bedroom trying to arrange a small table, two chairs and a battered bookcase into something that might resemble a pastor’s study. He had only his Bible and a couple of notebooks with him and he wondered ruefully what help he would be able to get from the local library. It was unlikely they would have much in the way of a theological section; perhaps a concordance.
Oh well, he sighed, I’ll have to hunt around for any second-hand book shops in the area. I might find something helpful—Pilgrim’s Progress maybe. He smiled to himself.
His smile froze when he heard a knock at the door. He had not noticed a truck rumbling down the street and pulling up at their gate.
“Is this where Pastor Gordon Moyes lives?” A hefty fellow in navy blue work singlet and abbreviated shorts consulted the slip of paper in his hand.
“Yes.”
“Right y’ are, pastor. We’ve got a load of firewood ‘ere for ya. Where d’ya want it put?” **
“Firewood? I haven’t ordered any firewood. We only arrived here a couple of days ago.”
The man lifted his stained felt hat and scratched his head. He studied the paper again. “It’s fer ya right enough,” he mumbled. “Look, it says, `Pastor Gordon Moyes with compliments of Mr A Blank.’ See, ‘e’s paid fer the wood. Maybe it’s a surprise fer ya.”
“That’s very kind of Mr Blank.” Gordon replied. “But you please take it back to him. When I want firewood I’ll order it.”
“B-b-but,” the man sounded genuinely puzzled, “it’s paid for. Ya don’t ‘ave to pay fer it. It gets awful cold here at night so ya’ll be needing a load of firewood.”
“I appreciate that,” Gordon shook his head. “Please return the wood to Mr Blank. When I want a load of wood I will pay for it myself.”
Shaking his head in bewilderment the truck driver climbed into his truck and drove off. Gordon closed the front door and walked down the hall to tell Beverley about the incident.
He found her in the kitchen where a hessian-aproned delivery boy was placing the second of two large cartons on the kitchen table.
“Look,” Beverley beamed. “Mr Blank has sent us two electric radiators. Isn’t that kind of him?”
“Take them back,” Gordon directed the delivery boy. Even to his own ears his voice sounded harsher than he intended.
The delivery boy stared at him. At last he blurted, “But he’s paid for them. He said they’re with his compliments.”
“Take them back.” Gordon directed again. “When we want radiators we’ll order them and pay for them ourselves.”
The youth silently carried the cartons outside and strapped them onto the outsize carrier of his bicycle. He said nothing but his expression spoke volumes.
As soon as they were alone Beverley turned to her husband, her face one big question mark. “They were a gift for the manse, Gordon. Why didn’t you accept them?”
Gordon shook his head. “Better not to. We’ve heard so much about the factions in this church. We don’t want to accept favours from anyone, Bev. We must remain neutral, completely unbiassed.”
“I suppose so,” Beverley agreed. “But this town has the most awful climate. Blazing hot during the day and freezing cold as soon as the sun sets. It’s midsummer, and yet I shivered with cold when I got up to attend to Jenny last night.”
Gordon put a sympathetic arm around her shoulders. “We’ll do something about it, but we’ll do it ourselves. Let’s not be bought or sold.”
**The first Wednesday night became the turning point. It was the night announced for the Bible study and Gordon carefully prepared a message outlining an introduction to the book of Romans. The meeting convened in the vestry, a wooden lean-to seemingly tacked onto the back of the church as an afterthought. It was in even worse condition than the other dilapidated buildings.
To Gordon’s surprise eight men straggled in carrying big, black Bibles. There were no women. Gordon had become accustomed to having adult groups of friendly young couples, middle-aged congenial marrieds and a few warm older folk, attend his Bible studies. These lone, dour-faced men ranged on chairs around the wall seemed to portend anything but a propitious beginning.
Gordon warmly welcomed them and then opened his Bible and began to read the first few sentences of Romans chapter 1.
“Hold on,” a tough voice interrupted him. “What translation is that? Are you reading from the Authorized Version?”
Gordon looked up. The threat in the voice told him that if he was reading from any other version he was in for trouble.
A heavy silence settled over the room. It reminded Gordon of the time, many years ago when he had stood up to bossy Mrs Gasip and let her know that he was in charge. Now, once again his authority as a minister was being challenged. If he let this incident pass he would not be able to do anything for the church. The Conference Executive had asked him to do all he could, but they would not hold him responsible if he failed.
Gordon closed his modern translation Bible and looked at the eight men. His gaze lingered on one face after another and then he spoke: “You did not invite me to come to this church, and I did not ask to come. The Conference sent me here to work with you until we learn to live together harmoniously. I hope we can do that and I intend to minister as God guides me.”
The men stared back at him. None of them stirred and Gordon continued. “You are not ready to study the Bible yet. We need to pray first. To pray for forgiveness and new attitudes. Nothing is going to happen in this church until we can all pray with and for each other. Now let us get down on our knees.”
To Gordon’s surprise these farmers, factory workers and business men did exactly as they were told. They closed their Bibles, turned around and awkwardly knelt down so that their elbows rested on the seat of their chair.
Gordon noticed that the eight had ranged themselves in two rows of four, each lot with their backs toward the other. Suddenly he had an inspired thought.
“Now I want you to pray,” Gordon said softly, “each man pray for the man directly behind him.”
The silence thickened with embarrassment. A board creaked as someone moved slightly. Someone else coughed self-consciously. Everyone remained with heads bowed and eyes closed, but no one spoke.
Just when it seemed that the experiment was doomed to failure one of the men began to pray. He prayed for all the sick and suffering, for missionaries at home and abroad, for all the Churches of Christ’s schools and hospitals and the chaplains working in hospices and prisons. He prayed for the Queen and for the Prime Minister and all the members of parliament. Gordon wondered who else could be mentioned; it seemed that God was being asked to remember and bless everyone except the members of the Ararat Church of Christ.
Eventually, with a sigh that seemed to come right up from the soles of his feet, the praying one said: “And now Father, I pray for Fred. You know that he and I don’t always see eye to eye and often he is wrong, but sometimes it is my fault too, and I want you to forgive both of us.”
A chair scraped on the other side of the room and Gordon peeked between half-closed eyelids. A man got to his feet but instead of walking out as Gordon feared, he went over and knelt beside the man who was praying and put an arm around his shoulders.
Before long all the men had prayed for one another and asked forgiveness of God and their fellow church members. Several of the men were moved to tears. It was a blessed meeting and as the nine men rose and sang the doxology, Gordon knew that a new Spirit had taken hold that night. Someone from above would change them and him and the community, in a way far beyond human expectations.
