How I Came to Be a Church Lady

I am the last of the Little Old Ladies at my church, and have been for at least the past fifteen years. To look at me, you might not think so – I'm only beginning to wear purple and flaunt a Red Hat – but it's true. I am the last of the Little Old Ladies. And it's partly because of being with the Little Old Ladies that I was finally able to achieve the status of Church Lady.

I grew up in churches. Some of my earliest memories are of Sunday School classes, I came to like liturgy, and stained glass, and hymns with reasoned verse and discernable melody, Later, when my family changed churches, I went through long-form confirmation, and, unlike many of my classmates, did not disappear from the pews upon its completion. I went to college locally, and drove in for Sunday School and the worship service. Later, I moved back to town, and remained a common sight around the place on Sundays. . .and Tuesdays (board meeting night). . .and Thursdays (women's group meetings). . .and Fridays (newsletter printing). These acts of devotion, however, did not qualify me as a "little old lady" or a Church Lady.

No, while I was still in my twenties, I became a Little Old Lady, because I used to sit with the group of women the rest of the congregation referred to as "The Little Old Ladies."

Now, among established church attendees, a strange ritual develops. When they find a spot in the sanctuary where they like to sit, they will always sit there. Eventually, that spot becomes associated with them. As I was growing up, my family sat on the left side, slightly more than halfway up. In the pew ahead of us, a group of elderly widows had lighted. They were gracious, pleasant ladies, who were delighted with the way my father would tease them. Eventually, my parents moved away. (It isn't likely to surprise anyone that I am such a homebody that my parents left home before I did.) I was left alone in the pew. Before long, the little old ladies noticed I was by myself, thought I looked lonesome, and invited me to join them. I did, and, in time, their Sunday station became mine as well. I had become one of the "Little Old Ladies."

As the elderly do, however, those ladies started to disappear. One moved closer to her children, another went to a nursing home, others died. One Sunday, I was sitting in my regular spot in the Little Old Ladies pew, looked around, and realized there wasn't anyone else there! All the genuinely old ladies were gone! And so I became The Last of the Little Old Ladies!

But even that didn't make me a Church Lady. That requires a special level of acceptance by the recognized church ladies: an acknowledgment of equality. My mother had been a church lady, so, after she moved, I was still granted some of her reflected honor; but I was not one in my own right. Making casseroles for the potluck, salads for the salad luncheons, attending women's circle, and teaching Sunday School don't guarantee church-lady-dom, either. But, through the casseroles, salads, Sunday School, board service, and being a "Little Old Lady," I did finally achieve it.

It was at a baby shower that the women's circle was holding for several young women. I was sitting at the same table as several of the Church Ladies: matrons of my mother's generation, some of whom had probably been with the church since before the new building (the "new" building, incidentally, is as old as I am!). They were women who had the respect of the congregation. That day, however, they were not in the best of moods. The gifts the young mothers were receiving were particularly excellent: expensive gadgets and conveniences that looked to these experienced campaigners in the conflicts of child-rearing to be, well, extravagant. They told of having to use cotton diapers, not convenient disposable ones. One described how her child had to sleep in drawer for two years because they couldn't afford a crib, The conversation went on like this for a while. Finally, I said, "Well, things are different than when we were that age." They agreed, and the conversation turned to other topics. Not one of them remembered that I had been a classmate of their own children, and was only slightly older than the mothers being honored. Those church ladies evidently thought of me as one of themselves! I had truly become a Church Lady!

On Loving Geeks

Although I'm the last of the Little Old Ladies at my church (a funny story for another occasion), I'm only starting to try on my Red Hat. I am old enough, however, to have spent many Sunday School sessions bellowing with the rest of the class that venerable childhood chorus:

Jesus loves the little children!
All the children of the world!
Red or Yellow, Black or White,
They are precious in His sight!
Jesus loves the little children of the world!

And I learned to care about the children (and the grown-ups) who didn't look like me. After all, the Apostle Paul had said "Where there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all, and in all." (Colossians 3:11)

But there are people groups who do look like me, and whom Jesus does love, yet, from the reaction of other church-people , you'd hardly know it. I'm speaking of — and I use the term respectfully — The Geeks. The children who choose The Clone Wars over Veggie Tales, the teens who prefer science fiction to sports facts, the adults who fix your computers in your home, but who wouldn't go near God's house. Have you ever wondered why?

I think it's us. Last year, I heard a Christian broadcaster talk about an email he had received. His program that day was to have been about male bonding, or something of that nature, and the email had suggested that the men who participate in Star Wars-related costuming might be interested in hearing what he had to say, because that was one reason they joined such groups. Evidently, the broadcaster had not understood the message's main point, because he proceeded to belittle reenactors, Star Wars and Star Trek　reenactors in particular, concluding with a remark that the program would be about real male bonding (or whatever it was).

I pray that no member of the 501^st Legion heard that. Those of you familiar with this galaxy's manifestation of the Galaxy Far, Far Away, know that the 501^st is a society of costumed Star Wars reenactors, primarily stormtroopers, who are noted for their participation in charitable, benevolent activities. They are not maladjusted misfits living in their mother's basement, but professional men and women, who have real jobs, live in their own homes, with their own families (who often enjoy "trooping" with them). Some of the acts of sacrifice they have made for each other I have held up as examples to my Sunday School class. But, while they all know Obi-Wan Kenobi, a lot of them may not know Jesus Christ. And knowing Jesus is eternal life.*
Someone must have told that broadcaster as much, because I understand he later apologized. Still, the point remains: prejudice is still a barrier to making God's truth known, and God's love felt, to geeks, who are just as needy spiritually, as any tax collector, prostitute, or pharisee.

Joe Stowell, former president of Chicago's Moody Bible Institute, once addressed this issue in a lecture he gave on the story of the Prodigal Son.**He had used it to show how Christians need to see people who aren't like them (and who may be hostile to them) the way God sees them. They are His wandering children who need to come home. The next thing to do is to pray for them. Pray that they will pay attention when God speaks to them; that you, or someone they will　listen to, have an opportunity to show God's love to them. Dressing up like stormtroopers, or speaking Klingon, or knowing the number of regenerations Doctor Who has had, may not mean anything to you, but it's important to them. Instead of ridiculing them, your time might e better spent finding out why those activities are valued. Geeks most often associate with other geeks, because they don't make fun of each other.

Perhaps showing respect is the most effective way to reach geeks. I'm reminded that the highlight of Dr. Stowell's lecture was an illustration from Star Wars: A New Hope. In it, a couple of droids, Artoo Detoo and his buddy, walk into a bar that is filled with "the weirdest, Weirdest, WEIRDEST – I can't tell you how weird they were" characters. As they come in, the bartender shouts that they don't serve "their kind"— and they're the only normal-looking things in the place.

Remember: that may be how your geek friends will feel when they visit your cantina —er, church.

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Notes:
* John 18:3

**My copy has no air date or product number, but it was broadcast on Moody Presents during the late 1980s or early 1990s.