The Kingmakers (based on a true story) by Sal Moriarty

Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn any thing, let them ask their husbands at home: for it is a shame for women to speak in the church.

1 Corinthians 14:34, 35 (KJV); written circa AD 55

Southeast Texas, circa 1984:

“Well,” Verna said excitedly. “How did it go? Did they approve the money?”

He had not closed the door behind him before the questions started. He sighed the quiet sigh he had perfected over thirty-some-odd years, walked slowly to the coffee table, and picked up the remote control.

“Well?” Verna prodded.

Ben sat his sizable frame down in his twelve-year-old recliner and pushed it way back. It was almost eight o'clock, and Monday night. Verna took the remote from his hand. He sighed the quiet sigh again.

“Would it kill you, just once,” she asked. “To have some priorities in life? The football game will wait. Did you get the money approved?”

“Carl couldn't make it to the deacon's meeting,” he said. “He has all the financial stuff on how much we owe on repairs to the foundation.”

“That's ridiculous,” Verna fumed. “The salvation of souls on hold in order to pay for a slab of concrete? Why wasn't Carl there? Don't any of you know how much that foundation cost?”

Ben calmly took the remote control back from Verna. The Cowboys weren't playing, so he could miss the first few minutes while the announcers blathered on. It was on such occasions, he felt the urge to have a drink, a habit he'd abandoned over thirty years prior.

“Verna,” he said. “You'd feel different if that foundation had gone belly-up and we were having church outside in lawn chairs.”

“You've got an answer for everything,” she replied. “The truth is you knuckleheads are supposed to be talking about church business and spreading the gospel, but you spend half your time talking about those infernal Longhorns. The package the WMU put together for Brother Lester and Sister Bonnie is frugal, not extravagant in any way. I hardly think a few thousand dollars to reach the poor, ignorant backwaters of the planet will break the bank.”

“Well, mention it Wednesday night at prayer meeting. I'm sure all the deacons will be there.”

“I will not,” Verna said. “You know I can't do that.”

Ya'll run the whole shebang,” he said. “But won't say a word at prayer meeting. Good lord.”

“You're skirting blasphemy,” Verna said. “We follow the Good Book. Every word of it. It's not ours to pick and choose which instructions of the Almighty we want to follow. That's the path to damnation. I'll say it again. We do not get to pick and choose. It's the Word of God. You either believe it, or you don't.”

She continued on in a similar vein, her voice fading as she made her way down the hall to the bedroom. Ben turned on the game.

Truth was, left to his own devices, he would've never darkened the door of a church. He'd been guilted into it years ago, not long after the war, before he became a bent old man. Of course, he had fallen in line, and by the time he was in his fifties, was a deacon.

The responsibilities were vague. There were meetings. Talk of budgets and property maintenance. When the preacher felt the “call of the Lord” to leave for another church, the deacons organized a pulpit committee to find another one. Whatever the business, deacon meetings always ended the same, with men who'd helped defeat Hitler, hiding behind the building, smoking cigarettes, talking about football, looking over their shoulders.

Afterward, Verna always wanted details, ultimately becoming frustrated by Ben's lack of interest. He would plop down in his chair and turn on the television. She would sulk a while before taking matters into her own hands, burning up the phone lines to find money for new pews or hymnals. In the end, she always found money for new pews or hymnals.

As he aged, church meant sitting on hard pews, fighting back sleep, dreaming the same dream he'd had since he was a boy. Alaska. He'd read dozens of books about that last, great frontier. He'd watched even more documentaries. He could still lose himself in thought, dreaming of a life there.

Eventually, he'd catch an elbow to the ribs, and come to attention to the drone of archaic English. He'd wonder how the preacher did it week after week, month after month, year after year. He didn't know whether it warranted admiration or scorn. In fairness, even the old preacher looked worn out most of the time, and he'd only fought in Korea.

Near the end of the service would come the invitation. If someone got saved, a line would form around the perimeter of the sanctuary, as the newly converted were greeted and welcomed into the Kingdom of God. No christening at birth for this persuasion of Christians. You had to go tell it on the mountain. Or you didn't get in.

After church, everyone wandered outside, the ladies congregating near the front door, movers and shakers, planning for potlucks and eternity; the men standing at a safe distance, smoking cigarettes, spitting chewing tobacco and placing two-dollar bets on the playoffs.