Dancing-with-Baptists-Createspace-Final--A4

DANCING WITH BAPTISTS
posture but even he wasn’t buying that. He just sank back into his wooden pew and hoped
the other troops were not imagining him wearing a white hood.
When Greg entered the sanctuary the usher sat him mid-way down the aisle next to
the kind-looking woman with an oversized flowery hat and a very used Bible. It never
occurred to him she could throw a mean Rosie Grier quarterback sack with a little
encouragement from the pulpit Vince Lombardi.
Greg was wishing he had sat in the back like all good Baptists so he could slip out
with few noticing. But if he got up from where he was seated and walked out, it could appear
to be a sign of disrespect or fear. Neither message Greg cared about delivering, so he sat up
tall and listened with his boots on.
Greg had only heard one side of this message before. He did not like the preacher’s
take although Greg had considered a couple of things before. Things like, if you separate
students and then give those students an inferior education and then you have those students
become teachers to teach the next generation of separated students, the outcome is pretty
predictable.
But that had been corrected. In the halls of Greg’s high school still walked jocks, and nerds,
and bullies but now they were all colors. That had been fixed. So what was this guy going on
about and why in a church? A church is the gateway to Jesus, friends, girls and chocolate
milk, not loud complaining.
“And now before I close,” the preacher said. Crap again, Greg thought. If he recognizes
visitors I’m not standing. They all know I’m a visitor. One who is definitely not returning.
But it wasn’t visitor recognition; it was “the plate.” Crap, Greg thought for the third
time. I only have two dollars. He had planned to use that for greens fees after tomorrow’s
training.
Shepherd AFB had a good golf course and it only cost one dollar to play, 50 cents for
a couple of balls and only another 50 cents to rent clubs.
The silver plate seemed to sail down the aisles like a holy Frisbee. The fired-up Rosie
Grier mom took all the change she had out of her purse and it hit the bottom of the plate like
a Vegas slot machine paying off. Then she swung the offering plate with a “pay-up or die”
look to Greg. Greg started to pass it on to the usher standing on his left but then Greg
looked up at the stained glass Jesus and thought about home. His mother or Jack the Baptist
had always given Greg a dime or a quarter to put in the plate. There was something “cool”
about the event. Especially cool because it wasn’t his golf money.
Greg did not like being pressured to do anything. But no matter how much he
struggled and how much the usher coughed, Greg could not, not put in the two dollars.
Maybe I’ll try reading a book, Greg thought.
Greg was starving by the time the service ended and he hoped the chow hall was still
serving lunch. Not knowing what to say to the minister, and with his stomach growling, Greg
ducked the “shaking hands” line and went out the Emergency exit with total conviction that
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