Going Public... continued

GOING PUBLIC

A View from Inside the Family Steeple

My dad was the Pastor of First Christian Church in Madera, California, for 21 years. Madera is where I was born and raised. It’s a small town tucked into the center of California, with nothing to claim but a hot valley of immigrant field workers. Growing up as a pastor’s kid is difficult to describe. I always struggle with answering people’s questions of what it was like or whether or not I liked it. There’s no doubt that growing up a PK had it’s perks; sneaking into potlucks early to score the only non-burnt brownie on the dessert table, finding all the secret hiding places before a youth group game of hide and seek, and hiding in dad’s office when the chairman of the elders went looking for all the reckless kids who broke the communion display.

I tend to liken the role of pastor to that of a politician, a blasphemous comparison to most but the truest in nature to those who have experienced either role. Dad was important, influential and led a congregation that was more demanding than the American public. In a crisp suit and a smile on his face, he could shake hands with the best of them. He was a social chameleon; to the rich and proud he stood tall and respectful; to the poor and downcast he knelt down in compassion. He was truly all things to all people and they loved him for it. If a vote was ever in question, he would win it by a landslide. As his wife, mom was always put together; hair neatly groomed, skirt and blouse perfectly pressed, always with stockings and scuff free shoes. She stands to the side and slightly behind her husband, smiling supportively while remaining submissively quiet. The children stand by in a perfect row of well behaved, neatly dressed and gleaming smiles; all glowing in the limelight of a great and wondrous family.

As kids, we all reacted differently to this façade. My sister, the oldest of us all, bought into the game with everything she had. As the first born female, she grew in the perfect parallel to my mother; she was the perfect child, with perfect grades, who married her perfect high school sweetheart. She completed her degree at the Christian University our church supported and then bought a house and settled down in our home town where she had her first daughter.

Second in line is my brother Andrew. He led a silent revolt against our family ideals, quietly aggravating my parent’s strong direction. He was the debater of the family; always questioning and arguing. He was also the comedian. He could debate any subject and argue until you were mad as hell, then he’d turn around and make you laugh. Most people developed a love hate relationship with Andrew. He was a good kid who just didn’t follow suit very well. His strong will defied it.

Frank is four years younger than Andrew and couldn’t be more different, from all of us really. Frank was one of the myriad of foster kids my parents took in over the years. They had him since his infancy and as soon he was put up for adoption they adopted him. Frank’s personality didn’t fit the Brazier standard but it worked well for him in the grand scheme of things. He was a cute little kid with a personable persona; he didn’t know a stranger, sometimes to a fault. Everyone loved Frank and as difficult as he could be, he could do no wrong.

I’m the baby of the family. I’m also a bit schizophrenic. I spent a great deal of my childhood striving to follow my sister in my mom’s footsteps. After a time I realized that perfection wasn’t really my thing, so I went for the comedic smart ass role, like Andrew. It worked much better for him than for me but I tried it on for size anyway. I knew I could never get away with Frank’s happy go lucky mantra, so I just straddled between being perfect, funny and anything that would label me as me, something with even a hint of individuality. It was a tough break though, because everything I did was seen as a result of me being a PK. If I did well, followed all the rules, excelled or achieved, it was all due the supposed advantage I had as a PK. If I rebelled, acted out or did anything wrong it, was made clear that I was simply acting out in response to the expectations placed on me as a PK. Nothing I did or didn’t do was in any way attributed to who I was as a person. My identity was my family, the pastor’s family; I was the pastor’s daughter.

I was the center of attention by default; popularity comes with the pastoral territory. Everyone knew who I was, even when I had no clue who they were. Not only did they know who I was, but they always seemed to know everything about me. I figured there was some underground newspaper detailing the ins and outs of the pastor’s family’s daily affairs. That’s probably a dramatic assumption but by the information everyone had on me, it doesn’t seem too far fetched. The church newsletter served more as the congregational tabloid and the prayer chain was just media hype in order to dig up more dirt for the tabloids. It was a fantastic system really.


A Matter of Systems

Every society creates it own system within which the people live their lives. There are expectations and rules and ways of doing things that go unquestioned simply because that’s the way it is. Someone, somewhere, at some point, decided that this is how it is and from then on that’s how it was and will forever be. Amen.

Growing up in a small church in a small town, it really was a matter of systems. To the lowest layman and average Joe the pastor was second only to the Lord Jesus himself and held as much power as the US President. For those arguing that the president doesn’t really have that much power, you’re right. But let’s keep that our little secret. In the wonderful world of an elder-run Christian church, the elders are to the pastor what congress is to the president. Yes, I hear your argument. Checks and balances and all that. Regardless. My point is systems. But, I digress…

My dad, the president. I mean, pastor. He shows up in his suit and tie every Sunday, parades the family through, and takes his place at the pulpit. His speech, I mean sermon, is crisp and new, fashioned in the most articulate style, delivered with just enough passion and flair to be inspiring and condemning at the same time, a double edge sword. The congregants laugh and cry and stand as on command to sing the Doxology. We are a well trained, well oiled machine, we Sunday morning Christians. Stand, sit, pray, repeat.

As we stand to sing our final anthem, pastor dad walks to the double doors and shakes hands with everyone on their way out. They say, “Great sermon, pastor.” To which he replies, “God bless you. See you next week.” He’s got a great smile, my dad. When I was very young, I would stand coyly beside my dad in those double doors, hiding slightly behind him as I would cling to his leg. It all seemed so strangely static and stuffy. But the old folks love a curly haired, little blonde girl, so I didn’t really complain.

They filter out of the sanctuary, through the foyer and out into the parking lot. This process usually took longer than the service itself. There was always a line of loiterers hanging around to steal a piece of my dad’s attention. There was the well intentioned elderly lady with a compliment that takes twenty minutes to stutter out. Her grumpy old husband was my favorite; we would grumble together about how long it was taking and how hungry we were. Then there was the chatty elder who never had anything in particular to say but he looked very important and involved sticking around like that. He could ham it up for hours. Of course there was always at least one person who had a serious issue to discuss with the pastor. You know, my sister’s husband’s brother’s cousin’s niece was offended by the Doxology last week because it was played on the piano instead of the organ, which if you know anything about the history of the Doxology, you would know just how wrong that is. Very serious stuff, my friend.

My dad would smile and nod, furrow his brow and tilt his head, looking very concerned. From one person to the next, he would talk to them all. By the time he was done, the place was deserted, except of course for the pastor’s family. My mom will have done her fair share of chatting with the ladies, and then would find a nursery or Sunday School room to clean. The older siblings would have found some friends to disappear with (the lucky bastards). After sneaking in and out of the church kitchen, I will have interrupted my parent’s talk-fest to get the family mini-van keys and sit ever so impatiently in the van, probably listening to all the secular radio stations that I wasn’t allowed to listen to.

It was a predictably conventional arrangement, this Sunday morning system. And I had a front row seat for every showing.