“Sister Monica, you really shouldn’t spend time with Sister Tammy.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “She’s…well, she struggles with her faith, and…” I was tuned out at this point and all I was hearing was the MWA MWAA MWAA of Charlie Brown’s teacher.
We had been in Central Illinois for a few months, and this was Pastor Strict’s latest edict.
Back in Pastor Kind’s church, we had a wonderful, fun, dynamic group of friends and would often stay up past midnight playing games, heading to Perkins for coffee, or watching movies (I know, I know. No TV. For some reason, VHS movies were allowed… but no R-rated movies, you might as well just get yourself a pitchfork and tail if you were gonna watch that smut.) There were good bits of church… learning about love, compassion and service, genuinely thinking about and caring for those around you, and being with great people with whom I am still friends to this day. The positive character taught was priceless.
Then came the day we packed the U-Haul and drove the straightest, flattest, most boringest road straight into the tightest loop of the Bible Belt, and it all changed.
We found our way to the one-room efficiency apartment on cobblestone streets (they hum when you drive on them!), piled our handful of possessions into the tiny place, and hurried to visit our shiny new UPC church.
We walked in and were instantly accosted by an overly jovial, squashy faced man who looked to be just a bit older than us? Younger?? This dude looked barely legal. Not that he would be caught dead buying alcohol, much less cigarettes. He introduced himself as Pastor Strict with the handshake and personality of a used-car salesman. Buzz cut hair as short as possible, with an impressively bunned wife whose name I still can’t remember because her role in everything was so damn subservient. Her hair was down to her feet, though I never got to see it because it was always stacked up tightly at the back of her head. He was EXTREMELY excited to welcome us into his rather empty church, and I was uneasy from the beginning. DH wasn’t thrilled about it either, but by golly it’s the only UPC church in the area, so we were kinda stuck.
They didn’t have a genius Hammond organ player like in Pastor Kind’s church, and there was often the singing of “specials”. I never knew why they were called this. Specials were just solos, usually to a recorded soundtrack. Lord have mercy, in the church they would let pretty much ANYONE sing a Special, so the songs were often sung rather poorly, occasionally while reading the lyrics directly off the cassette insert; microphone in one hand, folded cardboard insert in the other. Sometimes the tape would be warped, and sometimes this got so bad it would be good, and I would be biting my tongue to not completely bust out laughing. Remember that DH and I were both musicians, and this was worse than amateur night at Karaoke in a random Northwoods tavern.
And we had to listen SOBER.
I worked at a dry cleaners and later managed a flower shop, not too bad. Once while creating a dried arrangement, I accidentally squirted hot glue on my hands and yelled SHIT!!! … uh oh… I felt really bad about that and repented for like a week. Bad girl, no cookie. I once had to call someone else in to deliver a dozen roses to a tavern because I couldn’t have my car seen in a bar parking lot and have the appearance of evil.
They were big on this appearance of evil thing, as you imagine this could expand to apply to all sorts of situations. The appearance of impropriety was a huge taboo, and I became kinda paranoid about what I was wearing. I was taught to examine myself front and back in a mirror to make absolutely sure I wasn’t causing men to lustfully stumble by seeing the overtly sensual stray calf or upper arm. I wasn’t allowed to enter a bar at ALL, unless it had a restaurant and we were there for the food. I did wonder… the Bible addresses gluttony as sin, and you couldn’t go to the bar, but man oh man, you could eat and eat, and pile on all the pounds you wanted, seemed very inconsistent to me. I mean, because, of course, it was.
As usual, we were almost immediately recruited to lead worship, but then came the rules which are always more stringent when you’re “up on the platform”. Since I was married, my hair had to go up, and as you may recall, this is the guy who wanted strictly skirts on the women, no cheating. Do not pass go, do not collect 200$. Somehow Pastor Strict was tied into the upper level of command in the UPC, so we as the main worship leaders would travel and play with him sometimes, and this is when I really had to turn the modesty up to 11 so no one could accuse Sister Monica of improper attire.
Back to Tammy, though.
Most of the women I met in this church, as you might imagine, seemed a bit brainwashed to me. I was starting to wonder if the front hair swoops were hiding lobotomy scars. But there was one woman I instantly connected with, and Tammy was AWESOME. She also had questions about this “I’m the King” attitude that Pastor Strict had, and she was more easygoing about rules… more normal, I guess. Pastor Strict got wind of me spending time with her and sat me down to have a little talk. He would view a woman having her own questions about things as rebellion, so I really wasn’t too surprised when he pulled me aside. Bad company corrupts good character was the verse, and I was no longer allowed to spend time with Sister Tammy.
Dammit. I really liked her.
This is when the expectations of being in church leadership started to really set in…you’re the example, you don’t want to cause anyone to stumble, be submissive, don’t swear and don’t use substitutionary language, either. I was rebuked one day for saying heck. “I rebuke you, Sister Monica!” interrupting my conversation with another person. I had no idea what I had done wrong, then he admonished me that a substitute swear is just as bad as the original word. Well, what the frick?! I became pretty quiet and submissive, and hated that anytime we went out to eat, I was stuck with the ladies chatting about quilting and recipes and all manner of things I was totally uninterested in while the guys talked about doctrine, a discussion I would loved to have been allowed into, but nope, this was it. This was my life. I was to be this dowdy, handmaid’s-tale shadow of a woman, in a quiet support role. At least I still got to do music.
We became VERY anxious to get the hell out of there and back to Pastor Kind’s church, and by a highly ambitious miracle, DH got his Master’s degree in a record nine months. We tossed it all right back in the U-Haul, said goodbye to this indoctrination station in a cornfield, and fled back to our home church.
Things were about to change there, too…
Worship Leader Gone Wild 