The Power Of Inclusion (The 1st of 5)

Being left out hurts. Perhaps because I have spent so much of my life on the inside of the velvet ropes, I handle the notion of exclusion poorly. Which is to say, I don’t handle it at all.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. Move on.

Richard Griffin was my father. I rarely speak of the man. Richard departed when I was four years-old. He chose to leave the family. Abandoned. I’m still wary of the sting of not being wanted. The therapists and psy-everybodies are lining up for consultations.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. Move on.

That said, I freely admit to harboring an unquenchable thirst for acceptance. I like being a part of “the group.” I’m accustomed to having a seat at the table and a larger-than-life presence in the inner circle.

Clearly – a different circumstance from my own, but I agonize on Good Friday when Peter denies the Man three times. Me and you, Jesus, me and you. The pain that bubbles up when a friend turns away is… well. It is what it is.

Rejection is not washed away like dirt in the shower. It is not scratched off like an old scab. It is not discarded like table scraps or junk mail.

It is a piercing for which there is no bandage. Neosporin won’t help.

My mother spent her life in church music. Carl Hemphill, the preacher at Carolina Memorial Baptist Church in Thomasville, announced the church organist was leaving to get married and “We need somebody to play next week. Who has had the most piano lessons?” Despite her opposition and thanks to my grandmother’s insistence, my mother was chosen.

Thus, Margaret’s nearly 70 year-adventure in church leadership began. Eventually, she resigned from an unnamed and now-defunct church after a less-than-pleasant conversation with the minister who told her, “Maggie, you’re going straight to Hell if you don’t stop smoking cigarettes.”

We went home. My mother said, “I’m not doing anymore church music unless God sends a dove to my front door with a note tied to its leg.”

Later that week, there was a knock on our door at Countryside Apartments about nine o’clock one night. Bobby Faulkner was standing there.

“Maggie, can I come in?”

The Faulkner children were North Forsyth kids and Bobby’s carpet store, Old Town Carpet, had been the sponsor of my little league baseball team.

“Of course.”

“Maggie, I’m sorry to bother you but Betty and I go to Maple Springs and we’re looking for a new choir director. I was getting ready for bed and it felt like God kept telling me to come ask if you might be interested…”

“Pull up your pant leg. Is there a note tied to your ankle?”

We went to Maple Springs the next Sunday and the committee offered Margaret the job right after the service.

That was 1979.

I grew up at the Pumpkin Church. It was home. My grandmother moved in with us in 1982. The three of us were almost always one of three places: school, church or home. More often than not, it was school or church.

Maggie, Jeffrey and Mrs. Poole.

Almost immediately, my mother told me I was singing in the Chancel Choir. (The adult choir.) I sat beside Bobby Faulkner.

I’ve done a lot of music with a lot of people in a lot of places. No one has been more influential in my musical upbringing than Bobby Faulkner. The enormity of my respect and affection for the man is indescribable. He is a magnificent human being.

The church grew. The church grew a lot. At some point, for some report, we had to count numbers and compile lists. (Methodists love committee meetings and reports.)

We attempted to document everything. There were 17 “groups” in the Music Department involving just over 300 people. We counted everything again. That couldn’t be right.

Bells. Tone chimes. Choirs. Instrumentalists. A praise team. Children. Youth. Adults. Senior citizens.

Vikki and I were married. Margaret had retired from school. As a family, the three of us were at church 60-80 hours per week.

Margaret was not well. Her mobility was severely limited. She continued to direct the Chancel Choir, the Senior Choir, Golden Bells, Children’s Bells, the Praise Team, the Youth Choir and Youth Bells in addition to special services and programs.

Vikki, and a then-infant Sophia, helped run the sound board during the traditional service, built sets and made costumes. She kept life going by filing music, organizing folders, setting up microphones, plugging in cables, maintaining the calendar and carrying bell cases wherever they needed to go.

I tagged along. Worship leader for the early service. Arranging parts for the instrumentalists. Chancel Choir. Children’s choir. And… well, I went wherever I needed to be. I sang SWEET LITTLE JESUS BOY every Christmas Eve. It was my favorite moment of the year.

As Margaret became weaker and weaker, I directed more and more. We were constantly recruiting new members.

Maple Springs was our home. I think my wife was surprised by how many hours we spent in the church, but she never complained.

Church is reflective of the world. The more we moved forward, the more some folks voiced their opposition.

“That song is too slow! That song is too fast! We need more video! We’re not having a screen in the sanctuary! I want a wireless mic! Microphones are of the devil!”

The clamour was incessant. I was more than a little perplexed. Aren’t we all on God’s side? All the way with Yahweh. God is good… all the time and all the time…

2009. Margaret became very ill. She was hospitalized and was heavily sedated. They called Vikki at home. “We’re taking her in for emergency surgery. We don’t think she’ll make it. Get her as quickly as you can if you want to see her again.”

Vikki called me. We met at the hospital and crashed through the heavily guarded doors protecting the hallway leading to the operating rooms. They were rolling my mother into the O.R.

“Wait!” Vikki ran down the hall carrying our baby. “Sophia wants to say goodbye.”

My mother kissed my daughter and my wife earned “Bad Ass” status for life.

Life note: people in green scrubs are not especially fond of hallway interruptions. Just saying.

To little surprise, Margaret survived. They gave her LOTS of happy juice and she was as high as a kite for several days. Several.

Nobody knew at the time, but the family had already decided Margaret was going to retire at the end of the year. She would do Christmas and be done. We were in agreement. We had not informed the church because we did not want the last six months to be a gigantic going away party. Church is church. It was not going to be the “Farewell Maggie Tour.”

The preacher from Maple Springs visited Margaret in the hospital. Vikki and I were not there. In a moment of lucidity, she told him she was planning to retire at the end of the year.

It was a confidential utterance.

The preacher returned to the church and made the announcement from the pulpit. “Maggie is not returning.”

We were stunned. In hindsight, we should have seen it coming. He was not a fan of my mother. There was an uneasiness whenever the two of them were in the same place. I think he wanted our family gone.

He refused to learn Vikki’s name. We laughed about it until it became uncomfortable. He never ever addressed my wife by name. I found it disrespectful. Vikki, the more easy-going half of our union, swept it under the collective rug and continued doing whatever needed to be done.

We read about the service and reception to honor Margaret’s 30 years of service in the church newsletter. We were never told.

I called the church and informed the preacher that Margaret could not attend because she was in a rehab facility for physical therapy and Vikki would be flying out-of-state. “We need to find another date.”

His response? “Sorry you can’t be here but that’s when we’re doing it.”

No member of the Griffin family attended.

The “Director Of Music” job opening was posted in all the regular places. I submitted my resume and a cover letter.

Hire me. Don’t hire me. The church absolutely has the right, and the responsibility, to make the best decision possible for the church. Not a problem. I agree.

I thought, however, I had earned the opportunity to be in the conversation. 30 years and a family commitment merited at least the consideration.

The preacher assembled a committee. (How Methodist. Bless our hearts.) One of the committee members was sent to deliver the message in person.

“Jeffrey, we received your resume and your letter but, the truth is, you’re simply not qualified. We hope you will find a place in the church where your talents can be better utilized.”

Through the grapevine, I learned that the preacher was saying some pretty ugly things about me and my family around town. I was angry. I was more than angry.

I contacted the Administrative Board of the church and asked them to put a stop to the inappropriate conversations. Nothing happened.

I sent the preacher a “Jeffrey version” of a cease and desist letter. Nothing happened.

Eventually, I contacted the Bishop’s office of the North Carolina Conference of the United Methodist Church. “The comments about my family better stop. If it continues, we’re prepared to retain an attorney.” I’m guessing there was a phone call and the preacher found his OFF button.

Vikki, Sophia and I did not return to Maple Springs. Bitterness morphed into anger which led to deep resentment. I nearly drowned in a wave of rejection and depression that was almost impossible to overcome.

I declared I would not return to any church. Vikki prayed and prayed and prayed for my well-being.

Countless football games played among the pumpkins each October. Learning to drive in the vast parking lot. Placing flowers on the cross on Easter Sunday. The memories haunted me.

Every time I drove past the Pumpkin Church, I was consumed with a hatred that was unnatural and unhealthy.

Cry in the bathroom. Temper tantrum in the car. I could not move on.

In the Methodist church, preachers come and go. Love ‘em or hate ‘em: hang on for a while and a new one will appear.

Time passed. The preacher left. Jeff Coppley arrived. I knew Jeff long before he was the senior pastor at Maple Springs. I like Jeff. I love Jeff. He is a righteous man.

Margaret died. (That sounds ugly when I read it out loud.) Eventually, it will happen to each of us.

Jeff and I met in his office to talk about the memorial service for my mama. That was a conversation. I finally said everything I’d wanted to say about every thought and every feeling and every everything since we left the church in 2009.

Thunder and lightning. Earthquake and avalanche. It was not a moment Jeff could fix and I was in no mood to pray. He let me be. Being in the church building made me sick.

What I wanted, was to be included. What I wanted, was to be needed. What I wanted, was to be a part of the whole.

More than anything, I wanted somebody to stand up and claim me.

“The Lord turned and looked at Peter. And Peter remembered that the Lord had said, ‘Before a rooster crows tomorrow morning, you will say three times that you don’t know me.’ Then Peter went out and cried bitterly.” – Luke 22:61-62

I don’t sing in church these days. I sit in the congregation with my wife and our children. I’m fine with God. We’re good. Church, on the other hand…

We celebrated Margaret’s life. The sanctuary was full. The organ roared. The piano sparkled. The drums pulsed. The bells chimed. We danced. Terry Hicks and I picked three of the biggest, loudest, most outrageous anthems we could find for a choir that was bigger-than-life. Some of the people I love most lead the readings. Preachers preached. Saints prayed. Sinners laughed. It was the most glorious hymn-singing to ever happen this side of Heaven.

And, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t angry with the church. I finally understood it is not the place our family is supposed to be. I called Jeff. I explained and he understood. I knew he would.

Maple Springs is home to some spectacularly wonderful people. Folks I cherish. Folks for whom I would do anything. Folks I love. I’ve never thought the church is “bad.”

The church should have done better. The church must do better.

For whatever reason, a handful of well-meaning Christians thought it wise to exclude me and mine. My Nannie would have said we were “run off.” I say we were pushed out. That hurt. It still hurts. Some nights, I weep.

Bitterly.