Though the story seems apocryphal, it carries its own veracity when you have heard it out. It comes out of the soul and psyche of the Southern church in its heyday of racial unrest some half a century back.
Like many of its ilk, a certain genteel congregation in a large Mississippi Delta city was struggling with the issue of admitting “people of color” into their morning worship services. In spite of the signs in front proclaiming “Everybody Welcomed” and hymns intoning, “We are not divided all one body we”, this predicament straddled denominational lines throughout the town. Even Presbyterians. Especially Presbyterians!
After months of struggling with the question, the Session did what seemed best: they appointed a committee who deliberated diligently and finally decided. The matter would be handled at a called meeting of the Session following morning worship on a particular Sunday.
The congregational matriarch’s oldest son was a very influential member of the community and a voting member of the Session which met that day after church. As tradition demanded, the family waited for the meeting to end before gathering at grandmother’s home for Sunday lunch. When the Elder brother came through the front door, his loving mother simply inquired, “Well, what did y’all decide to do about this matter at my church?”
The ice was broken, the chase cut, and the issue brought squarely into the dining room on this day of sabbath rest. “Now, Mother, why don’t we enjoy our Sunday dinner before talking about that. You know how much it upsets you!”
“Son, we will not sit down to eat until you have told me what the Session has decided to do with my church.”
“Mother, let me ask you what you think Jesus would do in this case?”
“Oh, I know what Jesus would do; he’d say we should let them in. But he’d be wrong!”