December 1998 Issue

MATTHEW 3:1-12

It was the beginning of the second week of Advent, and I was experiencing the tension the season brings. We had sung the only two Advent hymns the congregation knew last Sunday, and now they were eager to sing Christmas carols. But the second Sunday in Advent has steely-eyed John the Baptist spitting out insults and thundering, "Repent!" I cringed at the Lizzie Borden image of God giving us the axe like a tree with the blight, or throwing us into a brush fire. For John did not demand a shallow "I am sorry" one-time event kind of repentance, but the kind resulting from the axe slamming painfully at the root of our sin, so that we cry out from the offense of it all,

I winced further at preaching this word of God amidst the flurry of gift-buying, good-will and glad tidings. During this Advent tension, the phone rang. A voice asked:

"Reverend Hubbard?" "Yes," I answered.

"I'm James Metcalf. I've been in a wheelchair for 57 years and spend all my time listening to people and helping them out with their problems. I wonder if you'd marry a couple who wants to get married real bad. I talked with some of the ministers here in town but they were too busy and told me to call you."

"Oh?" I said cautiously. My experience with their recommendations had taught me to be suspicious.

"Can you do it?"

"When?"

"Tonight. Can you do it?"

"Have they got a license?" (Maybe that would put a stop to it).

"No, but they'll get one right away." "Well, all right."

"We'll call you later. The marriage will be at my house, 69 Pear Street."

Maybe I'll get lucky, I thought, and the county clerk's office will be closed. I thought with irritation of the fellows in the Ministerial Association always dumping on me things they didn't want to do and returned to my Advent predicament: how do I get around John the Baptist? The phone rang again.

"Reverend Hubbard?"

"Yes"

This is John Wayne Lilly. My uncle James called you about getting married. I got the marriage license, and we want to get married in your church tonight."

"Well, Id like to ask you some questions first."

"Go ahead. Uncle James said you'd like to do some counseling. So, go ahead. Counsel me."

"How long have you known your bride-to-be?"

"Four years." (That sounded good).

"What's her name?"

"Tammy Sue Ritchie."

"How old is she?"

"Thirty-one"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, but age don't matter. She has two children by some other man and two by me. So I have four reasons to get married. Can we be married at St. Paul? I got Jesus in jail and I'd like to be married in church. About eight p.m."

"Well, your uncle is in a wheelchair. Can he make it?" (I was thinking of those seventeen steps into the church).

"Yes."

A little later the phone rang again. "This is John Wayne. Did you turn the heat on?"

"No, I wanted to wait until you called."

"That's good. Good thinking. Can you marry us at the intersection?" "Intersection? you mean outside--on the street?"

"Yeah. Looks like the way things are going the police is going to bust it up. Can you marry us right now?"

I looked at my watch. It was five to five. "How about 5:30? Will that give Tammy Sue time?"

"That's fine."

"But the police will easily find you if I marry you at the intersection. Besides, it's fifteen degrees--it's too cold! Why don't I marry you at your uncle's house the way he originally planned?"

"OK But if the police see all my friends coming here, they'll bust it up for sure." "Not at 5:3 0--too early."

"Yeah, I got Jesus in jail and wanted to be married in church, but we'll get married at Uncle James'. See you there!"

I was looking over the marriage ritual when the phone rang for the fourth time.

"Reverend Hubbard?"

"Yes?"

"This is Henrietta Grimes. I'm the wife of John Wayne's employer. Could you possibly hold off marrying John Wayne and Tammy Sue until seven o'clock? She needs time to get ready."

"I thought it would be rushing her. I'll come at 6:30 and fill out the forms and meet the family, and begin the ceremony at seven. Will that be all right?"

"Yes, I really appreciate you marrying them. They've been wanting to for a long time but things kept happening to them." She paused for a moment and then added: "Tammy Sue's a little retarded," and then she hung up.

Oh, well, I thought. It's not as if John Wayne hasn't had ample opportunity in four years to find that out. I read the marriage ritual over again, sighed at the beauty of it, and prayed that I would say and do the loving thing.

I drove to James Metcalf’s home located in a poor section of town and knocked on the door. When it opened, the first thing I saw was a large white Bible on a highboy next to the door, with yellow artificial flowers on it. When I stepped in, a wave of hot air hit me, along with the impression of a small room crowded with people who had not bathed recently. A stove radiated heat and took up a third of the room. A nice-looking short young man, with dark hair and eyes, rushed up and introduced himself. "I'm John Wayne. Don't call me John ... I'm John Wayne. This is my uncle, James Metcalf " A stocky man in a wheelchair, with a florid complexion, strands of blond hair combed sideways, said, "Pleased to meet you, I've heard a lot about you. Kept reading about you in the paper. Kept wanting to call you. This is my mother, Mrs. Wibberly," She was a small woman, with long, black, wavy hair sitting in an upholstered chair by the door. A scrawny little black Chihuahua jumped down off the top of the chair and barked at me.

Mr. Metcalf said, "This is my dog--Justice for All. He was peeing all over everybody equally when I saw him at the pound. So I named him Justice for All. Call him Justice for short. "

John Wayne pointed to a short, thin, dark, grimy, shifty-eyed weasly man who sneaked a look at me out of the comer of his eye, keeping his body sideways. "This is my dad, John Lilly." Lilly nodded. I thought he would be a prime suspect for any robbery or rape. John Wayne continued: "This is my friend Tommy Applegate." A blond, beefy teen-ager grinned vacantly at me. He looked more than "a bit retarded." I thought wildly to myself: Does John Wayne have a fetish for this kind of person?

Then he pointed to a woman in a wheelchair--round face, dark eyes, medium length dark hair. "This is Mrs. Grimes, my boss' wife, and this is my boss, Mr. Grimes." Intelligence glinted out of his eyes set deep in a pleasant face. Dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and khaki pants, he radiated authority.

I took off my coat and put it on a chair beside the stove. The phone rang and John Wayne answered it. "Well, you better git here then for it's starting at seven," he barked and hung up. Then a small woman with elegantly chiseled nose and lips slipped shyly into the room. Her pale green dress was wrinkled, but the neckline, outlined with sequins, winked cheerily in the overhead light. Her shoulder length, dishwater blonde hair waved slightly. She looked both hopeful and beaten down. "This is Tammy Sue," John Wayne proudly announced, and hugged her. She melted into his body. I immediately relaxed. They really loved one another. Her love for him and joy at being married delicately transfigured her features. She timidly took my hand and smiled. "Do you have the rings?" I asked. "No. We didn't have time," John Wayne explained. "Or money," Tammy added softly. "The rings are symbolic, so we could borrow them. Do you want a double ring ceremony?" I looked at Tammy and her eyes glowed a "Yes."

"Since you haven't gotten them yet, why not have a double ring?" I suggested. Mrs. Grimes offered hers for Tammy and Mr. Grimes gave me his. I gave it to Mr. Metcalf as best man, and said ""It's seven o'clock--time to begin."

"Let's start with prayer," John Wayne demanded. "I got Jesus in jail and want a prayer." Mr. Metcalf put on the wedding music, a tape of "I'd rather Have Jesus than Silver and Gold. " Tennessee Ernie Ford's deep tones mingled with my soprano ones as I asked for God's blessing on the wedding and God's guidance for the couple. Just as I finished, the door burst open and a short, bleached blonde woman who looked like a tougher, more sharply defined Tammy Sue, came in. Since none of her relatives or friends had been introduced, I thought this might be Tammy Sue's sister. But John Wayne abruptly said, "Bette Davis, my sister. I smiled and invited her to stand on the other side of Mrs. Grimes. Placing myself in front of the stove, I began the ceremony.

Though I had been told Tammy Sue was retarded, she had no trouble remembering the vows and repeated them without stumbling over them. I had to shorten them, however, to two words at a time for John Wayne. I then realized he was more than a bit retarded, but his forceful personality covered it. At that special moment in the ceremony when I joined their right hands and with my right hand firmly clasping their united ones, announced them husband and wife, an intense joy welled up within me. As I looked at them tenderly kiss, I was ashamed of my former feelings at a scene only Flannery O'Connor's genius for the grotesque could capture. Instead, the love I saw shining from their faces was for me the reflection from the face of God. Much joy and satisfaction flowed from John Wayne and he proudly hugged his bride, who glowed with that special beauty brides radiate.

I thought of how adamant John Wayne was about being called John Wayne and looked over at the weasely-looking father who in a fit of hope had named his son after a bigger than-life symbol of manhood, and had named his daughter Bette Davis, the byword of a liberated woman. Yet both of them did have confident, take-charge personalities.

At the final prayer, John Wayne clasped Tammy Sue against him tenderly, and I exulted to myself. I don't care if the fellows in the Ministerial Association did palm them off on me as a joke. Though I had at first come reluctantly, I was now happy for them. They were ecstatic at finally being married. John Wayne then asked me: "How much do you charge?"

"Well," I stalled. I'd only had two weddings and never thought of charging. John Wayne picked up on my hesitation and said: "Oh, you're going to marry us free as a wedding gift." "Yes," I smiled with relief "You are exactly fight." "You don't know where we could stay the night, do you? Our landlord kicked us out and put all our stuff out in the street in the rain. I was so mad I was going to punch him out and he called the police. He knew by threatening him I had broke my parole --so I been hiding out from the police the last two days."

I regretfully shook my head as Mr. Metcalf started taking pictures. Then someone shoved a glass into one of my hands and a piece of cake into the other. I cautiously took a sip and then relaxed. It was the right kind of coke. I toasted the bride and groom, and basked in the satisfaction everyone shared. They had all wanted this marriage, but jail, lack of funds, and one disaster after another had prevented it.

Soon after, I took pictures of the whole group, then picked up my coat, shook hands with everyone again, and walked toward the door as Chrissie Lane sang "The Last Word In Jesus Is Us." As I went out the door, Mrs. Wibberly, John Wayne's grandmother, who had not said a word the whole time I was there but had stared at me avidly, reached out and grabbed my hand and said, "I just can't get over it! You look and act just like my sister. You make me feel so good. You're one of us!"

Automatically I thanked her, walked on out, and shut the door. Numbly, I thought: "1? One of them! Here I thought myself better than that family--in and out ofjail--drunk and stoned half the time. And all along I looked like the aunt of that weasely, dirty man! Every atom of my body resisted the pain of it. And then a bubble of laughter welled up in my throat and rang out, providing a descant to Chrissie Lane's "The Last Word In Jesus Is Us."

I don't remember driving home, but came to myself sitting in my driveway in the car transfixed and transformed and transfigured. I bowed my head, leaned on the steering wheel, gave thanks to God for Mrs. Wibberly's words and repented. I felt a vision of something more and better overwhelming me with the knowledge that I loved all of them, that they were mine and I was "one of them," that never again would we be strangers.

"By God, I am one of them," I repeated, amazed. And proud of it!" I thought of that hour together as a sacrament, a holy communion, where God was touched, tasted and known. The final benediction given by the grandmother, "You are one of us," reinforced the words of Chrissie Lane's "The Last Word Of Jesus Is Us." It was almost zero outside, but I was warm inside that car, awed by being struck with the transforming power of God. I rejoiced that the prejudiced branch, the diseased layer of identity that had distanced me from any of God's children was cut away. And I thought of their being named Justice--the only justice they'd experience-- and I remembered those words from Amos:

"Though you offer me burnt offerings, I will not accept them. I hate and despise your feasts and religious services. But let justice roll down like water and righteousness like an overflowing stream.

I realized that the Advent tension was created by my own resistance to having the highway to my heart prepared for Jesus' coming, that we can not really know, can not really feel the joy of Christmas until God axes away any obstacle that prevents union with our Lord, and that the way to the heart is straight through John the Baptist's uncompromising cry, "Repent. "

"I'm one of them" I sang out. "Justice for all," I vowed, and singing "The Last Word in Jesus is Us" marched into the parsonage, called the Colonial Motel, and arranged for John Wayne and Tammy Sue to stay there one night --- courtesy of the County Ministerial Association.

THE PROTESTANT HOUR
REV. MALLONEE HUBBARD