The Reverend Roy Clinard
I was in my teens when my family attended pastor Clinard’s church. It was a small white clapboard church built in a small Midwest town. The sanctuary was two rows of pews with the door coming in from the side because the church sat so close to the street. The doors opened into a small greeting area which also was the bell tower. The bell would ring the church services in so all would know we were celebrating God’s day every Sunday. Since the doors were situated on the side, several pews were missing on the right hand side facing the pulpit to form a small area where people would congregate before and after the service. This was Rev Clinard’s favorite area to stand and greet his parishioners since no one could enter or exit except though there. On the left hand side facing the pulpit the pews went all the way to the wall. This was my domain. The last pew had my name on it. I mean literally had my name carved in the pew. From here I could watch everything that went on in that church. I knew who slept in church, who put money in the plate, who was talking to who and who wasn’t talking to who, but most of all I could keep an eye on Rev Clinard and the door at the same time. It was always a race to the door for the Rev Clinard and me. I usually won because I was closer to the door than he was. On this particular day I must have been dozing or enamored by a lovely vision in a skirt, because before I realized it; people were milling around the Rev and blocking my escape route.
Now, I didn’t dislike the Rev. This cat and mouse game was simply an adolescent game I played to irritate my parents and him. He knew that and sort of played along. I secretly admired the Rev. I had heard the stories of his conversion and how God had taken away his vices and replaced them with virtues. He owned a successful tire store at the time of his conversion and continued to run it along with his ministry. He was well to do by my standards and owned a beautiful 1960 Cadillac. I got to ride in it once to church camp in the cavernous back seat. We floated along the highway at seventy plus miles an hour like we were riding on air. This car was huge, heavy, powerful, and had fins on the back that stuck up like the tail of a Boeing 757. I loved that car.
It was the ultimate for a boy used to rusty Chevrolet s or Fords that rattled down the road and had to be coaxed to life by dancing on the accelerator while turning the key and praying, “Please God, one more time.” To get them started.
The Rev was humble man who dressed humbly, even conservatively, and wore no jewelry because it was against his belief, but he wore God on his sleeve and all you had to do was shake hands or look into his eyes to know that.People were milling around the Rev standing shoulder to shoulder talking and shaking hands. They were filing past the Rev complimenting him on his sermon and how much it touched them, or getting words of encouragement. I had resigned myself to defeat and lined up to shake hands. The lady in front of me had been talking for a long time. She was dressed nicely in the unwritten but accepted dress code of that denomination. She had on an ankle length dress of a conservative neutral color with a black purse and shoes. She had her hair done up in a bun on the back of her head. Her silvery hair added just the right touch to her very proper and pious attitude. You could tell she was a good Christian, at least in her own mind, by the way she carried herself, with her head held high and her nose slightly higher than normal so she could sniff out sin and snuff it out! I started eavesdropping.
“Brother Clinard,” she said, “Did you see Sister Smith’s (the name has been changed to protect the innocent) dress today? It was very inappropriate. It was so short you could see her legs!” All the while she talked she grasped Rev Clinard’s right hand in a conspiratorial handshake. The pompous piosity pumped up right along with her right hand. “And those high heels… I just don’t know how she even walks!”
The Rev was clearly uncomfortable but could see no way out. As she talked her nose rose as her chest expanded like a fully inflated life preserver.
Just then she gave him his out. “And that color. Red is so… well so…” She at this point leaned to get closer to whisper, “Satanic!”
Rev Clinard looked her in the eye and in his gentle and humble way replied, “Sister, I couldn’t see the length of Sister Smith’s dress or the height of her shoes from where I stood.”
“But surely you could see the color of her dress.” She smugly retorted, still hoping to recruit an ally.
“I’m sorry Sister, you see, I’m colorblind.”
You could just hear the pompous piosity escaping like the air out of a tire in the Reverend’s store. Pretty soon her nose was the same height as the rest of us sinners. I stood there for a minute till she lost the glassy look in her eyes and was able to move on. I walked up to Pastor Clinard, looked him in the colorblind eyes, and shook his hand. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a handshake quite as much as that one. Suddenly, I wasn’t in such a hurry to leave. We should all be so colorblind!