Extending the Right Fist of Fellowship ~ from Chuck Colson; Chapter 8 of "The Body"

Ed's Note: This is excerpted from 
Chuck Colson's Book ~ "The Body"  
~ Chapter 8: "Extending the Right Fist of Fellowship" ....enjoy!
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 "It was the right hook that got him. Pastor Waite might have stood in front of the communion table trading punches with head deacon Ray Bryson all morning, had not Ray's fist caught the pastor on the chin 2 minutes and 15 seconds into the fight. 

Pastor Waite went down for the count at the altar where most members of Emmanuel Baptist Church had first declared their commitment to Christ.

Donald Waite’s navy blue, three-piece worsted was almost impossible to wrinkle, but two of his front teeth were so loose that he would have trouble with corn on the cob for the next three summers.  Ray Bryson’s hand was broken in two places.  Some of the townspeople dubbed him Sugar Ray after that Sunday, but never to his face.

Nothing in the history of this rather typical New England community on the outskirts of Boston could have prepared them for the Sunday morning donnybrook.  After all, the days of the Boston Tea Party were far behind them.

Many at Emmanuel Baptist traced their ancestry back to a Christian group known simply as “those who follow the Holy Way”. Protective of their own and unyielding on questions of either their pilgrim ancestry of the inerrancy of Scripture, those in the Holy Way had built the town of Newton from a farming village into a thriving suburb by the end of the Second World War.  Guarding the Christian faith from the forces of compromise and worldliness was their generational watchword.

But none of the town’s founders could have anticipated the massive ethnic and religious reshaping of Newton in the second half of the twentieth century.  The Jewish population grew dramatically, and the Baptist population began to shrink.  Emmanuel tried to stem the tide with a bus ministry.  Eventually four bright blue buses toured the area each Sunday displaying the church slogan, “God Is with US at Emmanuel Baptist Church.”

Attendance rose for a few years.  But gradually more and more banquet space in town was reserved for bar mitzvahs, and the plan to build a larger sanctuary at Emmanuel was put on hold.  Temple Beth Shalom even began beating Emmanuel regularly in the church softball league.

No one anticipated the retirement of Pastor George Linheart either.  He had pastored Emmanuel Baptist for twenty-five years, guiding the faithful through change and challenge, preaching with conviction on temperance, television and the Trinity.

The pulpit committee searched the Northeast for five months before deciding to call Donald Waite as their new pastor.  Waite was a fourth-generation New Englander, with ancestors who had been Baptists before the Great Awakening.  He was fresh out of a Navy chaplaincy and wore his dress whites to the interview.  His spit-shined shoes were reflective black pools, and each button on his coat glimmered like real gold.  Donald’s wife, Flora, owned an impressive collection of hats, some displaying large ornamental flowers.  She spoke only when spoken to and carried a purse large enough to bail water.  In a town that thrived on the salty air of Boston harbor, the Navy uniform inspired confidence and the hats were a source of fascination and some amusement.

The Waites settled into the parsonage just before Christmas, and the new pastor started his pulpit ministry with a series of sermons on “Submitting to Pastoral Care and Leadership”.  He also began a visitation program, calling on the church members in their homes.  Appreciating his eagerness to get acquainted, the members hospitably scheduled their pastor for a luncheon, a dinner, or an afternoon tea.

Every host or hostess asked the same question: “Pastor, is there anything you need?”  And each time Pastor Waite make the same request. “Since I’m new to the flock,” he would say, leaning back in his chair, “anything that you could tell me about the people in the church would be of enormous help.  I just don’t know enough about everyone.”

The people of Emmanuel Baptist did not disappoint him.  Within a few months, Donald Waite was privy to most of Newton’s well-kept secrets.  Mrs. Campbell’s drinking problem, Frank Fowler’s secret divorce, the Clemen’s family battle with mental illness, and Brian Maguire’s time in prison were among the offerings.

Many church members praised Waite’s ability to listen.  He was so patient.  So understanding.  Some even arranged additional meetings to relate stories they had forgotten to share at first.  Waite carried an appointment book and made notes, capturing each rich detail.  By early March he had bought a larger appointment book and was starting to exert unusual control over the congregation.

When Frank Fowler demanded an agenda change during a church business meeting, Pastor Waite suggested a ten-minute break.

“You’re being pretty tough on the rest of us, Frank,” Waite said as the two men stepped outside and strolled around the parking lot.  “I would think that a man who has made mistakes-especially marital ones-would be more compassionate.”

Ordinarily Frank, who had one bad eye from a Vacation Bible School accident, would have squinted in the harsh lights of the parking lot, but he was looking at his shoes.

“I think I can keep the secrets I know about you, Frank,” Waite went on,  “especially when it comes to church business”  Frank may have been looking at the ground, but he saw the pastor’s meaning clearly.

Waite’s talent for getting his own way was a large as his appointment book.  One of his pastoral conferences could reduce the most disagreeable church member to sulking silence.  And by April most of the folks at Emmanuel had decided they couldn’t trust any of their friends from the church.

Late that month when the deacons and their wives gathered for their annual potluck supper, Ray Bryson voiced what many of them were thinking.  “If things continue this way, I don’t think Donald Waite should be our pastor.”

Frank Fowler squinted his agreement, Brian Maguire nodded nervously, and the deacons decided to call a meeting of the whole church to discuss the issue.  The bylaws required such a meeting before a pastor could be dismissed.

Before dinner was over, however, Pastor Waite had received a call from one of the wives, detailing the entire conversation.  His sermons on pastoral leadership had paid off.

Very quickly the church divided into two hostile camps.  Those who felt the pastor should be removed began sitting on the left side of the church.  On the right sat members who wanted to give him more time.  The choir was split and given to vacillation, the organist sided with the pastor, and the church secretary didn’t want to get involved.

Flora Waite resigned from her position as assistant director of the Dorcas Society after one of the ladies commented that blackmail was far worse than gossip.  Offertory envelopes contained more than tithes.  Routinely they were dropped in the collection plate imprinted with particular dogma.  “Waite No Longer” read some.  Others declared, “Support the Pastor.”  And there was always one proclaiming,  “The organ is too loud.”

The deacons began to sit as a group on the left side of the church, pressing together in the front pew.  In the past, one of the deacons had always made the morning announcements.  But ever since the weekend of the potluck, Pastor Waite had read the announcements himself, each time omitting the board’s call to special assembly.  For four weeks he simply kept the meeting from being announced.

On the third Sunday in May he was apparently going to do the same thing.  Connecting the lapel mike to his suit, Waite solemnly stepped down in the front of the wooden Communion table with its ornately carved command: “This Do in Remembrance of Me.”

“If anyone is visiting today,“ he began, “please raise your hand and our ushers will come by and give you some information about Emmanuel Baptist Church.”

At that point, Frank Fowler got up from the front pew and strode up the stairs of the platform to the pulpit.  Bending toward the microphone, he smoothed out a piece of paper and started to read: “This is to announce a special congregational assembly for this afternoon to discuss Pastor Donald Wa-“

Suddenly he could not be heard.  Flora Waite, at the piano, had begun pounding out “Have Thine Own Way” and was immediately joined by Sharon Carlson at the organ, drowning out the rest of Frank’s message.  Pastor Waite began singing loudly into his lapel microphone, and some on the right joined him.

Before they could begin the second verse, Frank pulled the organ power cord from the wall, and Brian Macguire shut the piano lid.  Flora Waite beat on his arms for a minute and even lost her hat in the scuffle, but Brian held on.

There was an awkward pause.  Deacons still in their seats coughed nervously and crossed their legs.  Most of the choir was leaning forward, and one of the tenors was taking notes.

Then Ray Bryson got up and walked over to the pastor in the slow deliberate way that one approaches an injured animal.  The veins in Ray’s neck were showing as the two men hissed under their breath at each other.

After a minute, Ray appeared satisfied.  He turned to go to his seat, but his feet were tangled in the microphone cord and he fell down.  There was an audible gasp from the congregation.  Pastor Waite delayed for one brief moment before reaching to help him up.  It was long enough to convince those close to the front that their pastor had indeed pushed Ray Bryson.

Ray must have thought so too, because he bounced to his feet and hit the pastor square in the nose with his fist.  The lapel mike registered the impact.

Flora Waite screamed and ran to help her husband, but she never got close to him.  Within an instant a majority of the congregation converged on the Communion table, punching or shoving.  Many came down the center aisle to help break up the combatants, but remained to fight after their side began to fall behind in the skirmish.  The melee soon spilled over to an open space beside the organ.

Two tenors and a baritone jumped over the wooden railing of the choir loft and began exchanging punches with members from both sides of the aisle.  Mary Dahl, the director of the Dorcas Society, threw a hymnal at one of the tenors, but the missile sailed high and wide and splashed down in the baptistery behind the choir.  Sharon Carlson had given up on the organ and moved to the piano, where she tried to restore order by playing “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.”  Anne Fowler, Frank’s wife, told her to return to her seat.

When Ray Bryson’s right hook finally took the pastor down, someone grabbed the spring flower arrangement from the altar and threw it high in the air in Ray’s direction.  Water sprinkled everyone in the first two rows on the right side, and a visiting Presbyterian experienced complete immersion when the vase shattered against the wall next to his seat.

The fight ended when the police arrived on the scene.  They restored order, took down names for the report they would file, and recommended that some of the men seek medical attention.  Ray Bryson’s hand was broken, and Mary Dahl’s knitting needles were confiscated.

The following Wednesday each of the deacons received a notice to appear at the Newton Courthouse for a hearing.

Pastor Donald Waite had also been summoned. On the day of the hearing, both he and Flora appeared at the courthouse.  They sat on one side of the aisle in the hearing room, and the deacons drifted toward the other.

When the court officer entered, breaking the uncomfortable silence, Brian Maguire recognized him immediately as David Goldstein, one of the spares on Temple Beth Shalom’s softball team.  For several minutes Goldstein looked over the police description in front of him.  The one time he looked up, he seemed to focus on the tape on Waite’s nose and the cast on Ray’s hand.

“I know some of you from the softball league,” he finally said, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.  “We may have had our differences on the ball diamond, but the cause of religion in our city is at stake here.  There must be some way you can settle your dispute among yourselves.”  No one could look at him.

“I have been a pastor in the service for many years,” said Donald Waite, standing up.  “And I have never met a more stubborn-necked people than those in this church.”  At that , the deacons raised their heads, and Frank squinted in the light.  But Waite was just warming to his theme. “Now I have been in the Way for a long tim-“

“In the way of what?” asked Goldstein, and then decided not to wait for an answer.  “I’m dismissing this case,” he said, rapping his gavel with sudden force on the desk.

Waite sat down awkwardly as Goldstein continued.  “No charges will be pressed at this point, but I urge you to work this out within your own church.  Your Jesus Christ may allow this sort of thing in His followers, but the Commonwealth of Massachusetts will not permit fistfights as a regular order of church service.”

The leadership of Emmanuel Baptist filed quietly out to their cars and drove off in different directions.  On the back of each car was a bumper sticker declaring, “God Is with US at Emmanuel Baptist Church.”  

~ From Chuck Colson’s book, “The Body” –Chapter 8.

·         This chapter is based on interviews and research conducted by Mike Murray in Newton, Massachusetts – with special thanks to John DeBrine for originally sharing the story.