Lip Service

Vignette 4: Here's what Mrs. Dashwood really thinks about Marianne's church service.

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The Right One

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Jane Austen’s beloved characters… brought together… in 21st c. Atlanta.

Lip Service

Vignette 4

Mrs. Henry Dashwood, widow and mother of three grown daughters, sat in church on the Sunday morning after Thanksgiving and knew she had gone from the sublime to the ridiculous. Confident that the intensity of emotion she felt directly correlated to the level of worship she achieved, she decided that the true worship service had occurred last night at Atlanta’s Symphony Hall. Mary Crawford had a true gift on the harp and had stirred her soul. This “worship music,” on the other hand, was about to induce a migraine. If a church service required ear plugs, what did that say about the preaching?

She stood between her youngest two daughters and surveyed her fellow congregants. There was an unseemly number of young people here, as if this were a party. The shortness of the dresses and depth of the necklines revealed their true purpose in coming; though, she supposed, church was probably the best place to look for a boyfriend. Was anyone here concentrating on the worship? The men must find all this flesh very distracting, she thought. She glanced at her son-in-law over her daughter’s head. He was singing the praise song with his eyes on the words projected on the screen. Her daughter Marianne had found this church, and Chris Brandon followed wherever the wind blew her — Marianne and her wild spirit, always searching for new highs.

Drums. Why must there be drums in church? Such a primitive and disruptive instrument. She cast her eyes about again and was surprised to count a large number of minorities in the room — not that that had anything to do with drums, she thought quickly. Diversity in church had been a long time coming, and she was certainly in favor of it. Her large-mindedness in coming here warmed her with a virtuous glow and strengthened her certainty.

A few congregants expressed a tendency toward movement with the music that Mrs. Dashwood found disconcerting. A snapping of fingers to her right drew her attention, and she frowned at her youngest daughter Meg, 21 years old and home from college for Thanksgiving Break, whose eyes were closed as she snapped and swayed to the beat. Those college campus ministries had turned a generation of Christians into hippies. She half expected someone to hold up a lighter next.

The praise music finally ended — though, why these kinds of songs never resolved on the tonic as if they threatened to continue indefinitely, she would never understand — and she sat down with relief. One thing she favored about these new, evangelical churches was the padded chairs. After spending a lifetime on a barely cushioned pew in her historic church, she knew when to be grateful.

However, there was something deadening about worshipping the Lord in a converted storage facility. She missed her church in Savannah, GA with its stained glass windows — dedicated and paid for by her husband’s great-great-grandparents, their names prominently displayed on a brass plaque near the pew on which Dashwoods had sat for generations. She glanced up at the ceiling crisscrossed with poles holding stage lights and projectors and missed the nave of her church soaring over the well-dressed congregants, echoing with the perfectly rehearsed tones of the professional choir — nothing like these volunteer musicians with their electric (electric!) guitars (guitars!).

The pastor took the stage, and Mrs. Dashwood’s face fell in disbelief. She had known Edmund Bertram as a boy — had known his parents — but she was wholly unprepared for the stunning man who stood before them. It seemed in bad taste for a pastor to be so handsome. No wonder the room was packed to overflowing. Thank goodness he was married, otherwise there’d be trouble, she thought, glancing at single-and-available Meg whose face reflected Ed’s smile from the pulpit. Mrs. Dashwood’s son-in-law Chris had met the pastor at Crossfit. Obviously.

She now remembered that story from eight or ten years ago — something about Ed Bertram almost marrying the harpist Mary Crawford and then… Oh, that’s right! Ed’s sister got pregnant with Henry Crawford’s child and the whole thing fell apart. How could she have forgotten? She shook her head, remembering the months of discussion that disaster provided. Not gossip, of course — it was all true.

Ed read the Scripture with energy instead of solemnity, something that smacked of irreverence, she thought, and  — after a brief, conversational prayer — launched into the sermon. Many of the young people around her had their Bibles open on their laps and took notes, either directly in the Bible or in separate notebooks — as if they were in school. Did they think there would be a test later? She thought of the final Judgment Day with discomfort and shifted on her padded chair. Were these the things that would facilitate entry into the hereafter? She had always thought it was serving the poor and the oppressed that made you right with God, not knowing every little thing the Bible said.

These Bible-heavy churches didn’t care about the poor, she thought, repeating something she’d heard someone say, and flipped over the order of service to read the announcements. Clean up the trash in the neighborhood park… Tutor neighboring kids in Grove Park (Oh, that was a very depressed neighborhood. She’d never been there.)… Mow lawns for the elderly in the neighborhood… Buy Christmas presents for children in families with one or more incarcerated parents (Good Lord!)… Fill shoeboxes with presents for Operation Christmas Child… Learn how to be a respite caregiver for foster children so foster parents can have a break.  She could tutor children after thirty years of teaching 4th grade….

Realizing that the homily should have concluded by this time, she checked her watch and returned her attention to Ed, surprised not to detect any summary phrases or declension of tone to imply that the end was nigh. On the contrary, Ed Bertram continued to preach full-bore, and no one around her packed up their pens or closed their Bibles or gave any other sign that they expected an imminent finale; rather, Marianne and Meg were riveted and still taking notes. How was it possible for someone to preach endlessly on a few verses in II Peter, which was so obscure, she’d never even read it before?

Her other son-in-law Rev. Ward Ferras, husband to her eldest daughter Elinor, would never presume to preach this long. One of the hallmarks of his church services was brevity. His church in downtown Atlanta where hardly anyone lived anymore was not very well attended, unless you counted the homeless sleeping in the pews. His was a very difficult job, which made this visit to Marianne’s new church all the more awkward. She was half afraid someone would see her here and report her betrayal to Elinor.

With a twinge of annoyance, she realized this incident would join the long list of examples of how she favored Marianne — which she didn’t. It was her youngest child Meg who wanted to come here, and she merely wished to be with her before she returned to college that afternoon. Elinor wouldn’t see it that way, however, and would wonder why they couldn’t all come to Ward’s church and worship together as a family. Unable to admit her discomfort with the poor, her fear of loitering vagrants, her dislike of the musty smell from unrepaired roof leaks, the arctic temperatures from dysfunctional radiators, and a general lack of inspiration in Ward Ferras’ preaching, she couldn’t articulate a single reason for not joining Elinor’s church, thereby increasing the tension between them. The legendary impossibility of finding downtown parking was belied by the church’s empty parking lot, so she fell back on the more defensible ground of politeness to her hosts. Living with Marianne and Chris (temporarily, of course — just until she found her own place) demanded the barest courtesy of attending their chosen church. If Elinor had a problem with their choice, she could take it up with Marianne. Mrs. Dashwood shuddered at the thought of that conversation.

She heard the words “Let’s pray” ending the sermon and checked her watch. Forty-two minutes. Unbelievable. The congregation bowed their heads, and Mrs. Dashwood looked at her diamond ring on her hand in her lap. It needed cleaning. Even so, those stage lights caused a mesmerizing sparkle that changed color as she tilted her finger. Further down the row in front of her, a young man’s head turned, watching her ring flash. She glanced at him and then looked again. That was one of the Morland boys. All those children looked so similar, you couldn’t tell them apart and would know them anywhere. This one was 22 or 23 years old with the familial black curls. With hair that unkempt, he must still be a student somewhere.

She had stopped turning her ring, but the boy continued to stare. With eyebrows raised, she closed her eyes in demonstrative prayer to alert the Morland boy to his impiety, but when she peeked again, he was still gazing in her direction. Such insensibility she could not fathom until she realized with disgust that he was staring at Meg, head bowed and eyes closed beside her. She rolled her eyes and drew a deep breath. Are women subject to the male gaze even during prayer? Meg did look remarkably beautiful with her long lashes brushing her cheek and her retroussé nose over pink lips, she thought — gazing at her, too.

Mrs. Dashwood spent the rest of the service considering the young men she would be glad for Meg to marry and those from whom she’d carefully shielded her. The body of Christ broken for you became that boy who’d shattered an arm in high school showing off a skateboard flip for Meg. The blood of Christ shed for you mixed with memories of the cute boy Meg had liked who’d gone to Westpoint. He would have taken Meg God-only-knew-where in the world — no, thank you. She stood for the final hymn and sang Amazing Grace from memory while imagining a strong, handsome, rich man who would love Meg with such passion that he’d give up anything to live for her. Only the best for Meg.

Ed Bertram gave the benediction, and Mrs. Dashwood watched the congregation raise their hands like satellites to receive it. When it was over, everyone began to mill around, greeting their friends, introducing themselves to newcomers. Meg and Marianne knew several people whom they went off to hug, and Mrs. Dashwood watched that Morland boy make his way to Meg — no lack of confidence there. Mrs. Dashwood stood with a pained expression on her face wondering how all these people could convey such joy while under assault from the praise band’s postlude. Ah, there was Ed Bertram. She must go over and tell him that she knew his parents and remembered him as a boy.

“Ed Bertram, there you are! You have grown into such a handsome man! And what an amazing sermon that was. You are a wonderful preacher! I can’t wait to come again. You couldn’t keep me away!”

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Next story:

The Color of Hope

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Find Jane Austen’s characters in her novels:

• Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret Dashwood, Edward Ferras, and Col. Christopher Brandon in Sense and Sensibility

• Edmund Bertram in Mansfield Park

• Morland boy in Northanger Abbey