Nashville: The Mood (Part 5)

NASHVILLE: THE MOOD

PART 5

by Donald H. Carpenter

Copyright ©2017 by Donald H. Carpenter, LLC

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NASHVILLE: THE MOOD

PART 5

Reverend Nixon Riggerton leaned back in his chair and suppressed a sigh. He raised his arms up slowly and clasped his hands behind his head, letting his eyes drift very quickly to the ceiling, then back to his visitor. The pastor of the Haywood Drive Baptist Church, still very lean and vigorous-looking at age 81, ran through the day’s visitors in his mind: a politician, a (supposedly) former prostitute, the president of the church’s women’s social circle, and the church’s most famous member, a country and western singer whose peak of fame had come more than forty years earlier. Even as his current visitor was speaking, Riggerton tried to remember the conversations from the earlier visitors, and found that they were all running together in his mind. He knew now was not the time to reconstruct their conversations in any great detail—he had taken some notes, anyway—but it frustrated him nevertheless.

But you now seem to be saying that gay rights are acceptable, the young man in front of him, a reporter for the one large city newspaper, pressed him. Or at least you seem to be saying that it’s not a priority anymore, that you’re just going to let it fade away.

Now that’s not for publication! Riggerton suddenly sprang to life and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. He paused with his right index finger outstretched, not really pointing at the reporter, but into the air just above him. And I didn’t say exactly that, if you’ll remember back. What I said was that a number of people in our congregation feel that way. It may ultimately turn out to be a majority, and that may ultimately be our position, but that’s not the case right now…I was merely remarking upon the nature of a conservative view and a more aggressive view.

I notice you didn’t say a liberal view.

The Reverend chuckled slightly, and seemed to relax once more. I like you, young man. You’re on your toes. You’re very alert to the nuances of language, and I always appreciate someone that is that way. Yes, you’re right about that. And maybe I should adopt another word besides conservative—say, ‘restrained.’ I was just admiring you for perceiving nuances, and I failed to be consistently nuanced, I guess.

The young man seemed to ignore the compliments offered by the reverend, and instead vigorously typed on his laptop, glancing up every few seconds to note any expressions on the reverend’s face, or change in his posture. Isn’t that generally what the church has done through the last few decades, even maybe going back centuries? Fought changes that were proposed, often fought them very hard for large blocks of time, seeming to make them do-or-die issues for the church, for society, for the world? And then finally coming around and moving on to something else to fight against?

No, I wouldn’t say that—

Well, look at your own church, the reporter broke in. He seemed to not appreciate the reverend’s earlier favorable comments at all, or at least he hadn’t allowed them to change a certain aggressiveness he had displayed from the very beginning. The reverend wondered why reporters felt the need to be aggressive, why they didn’t realize that it made the individuals they were interviewing more defensive, more cautious, much more measured in anything that was done during the interview. Slavery and civil rights, for instance. Those were hallmarks of your church. It came into being because of those issues, and the church was, as you know, on the wrong side of history.

Riggerton sat there, letting the question sink in, and the two men studied each other for what seemed like a full minute. It was deliberate on Riggerton’s part; he often did that when engaged with an adversary who was pressing forward aggressively. The young man sat stone-faced, eyes wide open like only the youthful can do, his mouth tightly closed with his lips forming a straight line, as if zippered shut.

Finally, Riggerton said, evenly, quietly, You’re thinking of the Southern Baptist Church, young man. We’re not the Southern Baptist Church in its original form.

What do you mean? You’re clearly identified with the Southern Baptist Church.

Yes, but that’s only a relatively recent development. Twenty-five years ago. Prior to that, we were the Baptist Assembly of the South. Have you heard of it?

The reporter stared at him with a puzzled look, as if trying to figure out if what Riggerton had just said was even an answer to the question he had asked. Vaguely. What’s it all about? And what does that have to do with my question, seeing that you’re part of the Southern Baptist Church now?

Well, quite a bit, if you care about accuracy, Riggerton said, leaning back again. He seemed comfortable, confident; he had covered this ground many times before. Baptist Assembly of the South never joined the Southern Baptist Church. At least, not when the Southern Baptist Church was formed. By the time we joined it, a little over two decades ago, it was simply not the same organization you’re referring to. But in the beginning, there were many differences. Now, the Southern Baptist Church has an African-American president.

I see. But I wasn’t referring specifically to the black-white issue. I was referring more to the general idea of the church taking a stance against some activity, fighting hard against that activity as if the world depended on that fight, and then eventually giving in, forgetting about the issue, and moving on…Would you disagree with that?

Riggerton looked out of the window, and saw three of the oldest long-time deacons of the church getting out of a station wagon in the church driveway, accompanied by a younger man, the relatively new assistant pastor, who had only moved to the area a few weeks before. Riggerton suddenly recalled his meeting with them, scheduled to begin in ten minutes, which had slipped his mind during the discussion with the reporter. He almost hated it, hated to end the discussion, when there was an issue on the table that he hadn’t adequately explained. Based upon his past experiences, the reporter would portray him somewhat negatively, even if only mildly so, to make a point he had planned to make even before he walked in the door.

You do have a point, Riggerton answered. Unfortunately, I don’t know that we really have time to get into it at length, because I have another meeting scheduled behind you. But you’re absolutely right in the sense that the church has acted as a brake on major changes in society from time to time. Not always rightfully so. But we would have to discuss each item individually in order for me to give you an overall viewpoint.

There was a knock on the door, and Riggerton called for the four men who had just arrived to come inside. He introduced them to the reporter, who remained polite but formal. Riggerton watched him interact with the four church officials, and wondered what the young man’s religious leanings were, if he had any at all. Most people have something, Riggerton thought to himself, even if they don’t realize it.

With the reporter soon gone, one of the elderly deacons, almost as old as Riggerton, turned and asked, What was he wanting? Same old stuff?

Riggerton smiled, and turned to glance out the window, watching the reporter get into his car and back away. He just wanted to know about the changes in the church in the last few years, a little of the history of the church, get my views on this and that. He was a nice enough young man.

Aren’t they all until the story appears in print? the young assistant pastor asked. Especially when the words you never said appear in print. I get so angry when I deal with one of those guys that I thought about refusing to do any more interviews. But I keep telling myself it’s a technique that I have to master.

It is, Riggerton said, nodding and waving them to take a seat at a table in the back of the room. I don’t know if there’s a science to dealing with reporters, but there certainly is an art to it.

What was he wanting to know about? another elderly deacon asked.

Oh, he wanted to know about social changes, like the gay issue, updates on abortion. We even touched on things I hadn’t heard of in a while, like gambling, and pornography.

The four men took a seat, spread out around the table, and Riggerton sat down right behind them. The four men looked off at the reporter’s departing car, and Riggerton could have thought he heard them collectively breathe a small sigh of relief.

The last of the elderly deacons turned to Riggerton. Did he ask about the Church of Mesmenology?

The prestigious Evan Reistermuller Academy sat far off the road in the southwest part of Nashville. A relatively small collection of buildings connected to the main road by a long winding driveway, the academy was somewhat hidden from view to a passerby, but still known to many, anyone who cared. For almost one hundred years, it had been the primary prep school in Nashville, producing most of the city’s top leaders, including lawyers, doctors, accountants, architects, large landowners, and many who either entered politics or desired to influence political activity.