Ed's Note: This is excerpted from
Chuck Colson's Book ~ "The Body"
~ Chapter 8: "Extending the Right Fist of Fellowship" ....enjoy!
________________________________________________________________
"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.
UN Partition Plan – Resolution 181 (1947)
