Thanksgiving Invitations

When you're a Bible thumper, you never know who you're inviting over for dinner

The year was 1976, and The United States was celebrating its bicentennial that summer. I was turning 13 and a “Bible thumper.” That’s what they call Christians who knock on doors, handing out literature to proselytize other people.

The pastor who baptized me earlier that year was big on evangelism. He believed every member of the church should be a witness. My father, who took theology in college, wholeheartedly agreed with him.

That summer, we had a great incentive to convert souls. A Christian was running for president. You might think a Christian candidate was good news for other Christians, but that wasn’t the case at our house. Even though we were going door to door to convert others to the cross of Christ, we rejected Jimmy Carter because he was “born again.” For some reason, many in our church saw him as a dangerous zealot who would ruin our country.

Even now, I can feel the chills running down my spine as I remember my dad and the pastor discussing all the terrible things that would happen if Carter was elected. They discussed how he was from a no-good family with a drunk brother and a sister who was—heaven forbid—a woman pastor. However, his family’s black sheep set aside, the worst fear was that Jimmy Carter would force his Sunday-keeping religion on those of us who kept Saturday for our Sabbath. Many in our denomination believed this would bring about the end of the world.

Since I feared the world was about to end, and we were racing against time to save souls, I threw myself into being the best witness possible. And no one was more faithful than I was when it came to knocking on doors. I had no fear of strangers.

Very few people took us up on our offer to visit our church or come to a Bible study, but I was mindful to smile and wish them a nice day anyway.

The evangelical efforts of my family brought a total of two and a half converts. The two were a set of twins in their early 20s, who were in the Navy. When we knocked on their door, they had books from almost every denomination on their table, but they had never met someone from our church before.

The twins immediately started Bible studies with my dad and came to church the next week.

My mother, who once dreamed of being a pastor’s wife, took her role as hostess seriously. She prepared gourmet vegetarian meals that even the most diehard carnivore swooned over. My sisters and I began a long season of helping my mom prepare delicious meals, while we had the twins and their friends over every week after church.

In time, the twins got baptized and merged into our family and church. They seemed like thoughtful young men. After weeks of dinners where we had only a small table and a couple of camp chairs, they showed up in their 1950s Cadillac with a furniture store truck that delivered an entire dark wood, colonial dining set with six chairs.

My mom was excited to have a real table, and my dad was thrilled to have two baptized converts—stars on his crown. Stars on all of our crowns, the pastor said, because we’d all had a part in their conversion.

Now, when I say we had a half-convert, I might be stretching it a little, but that’s what we thought at the time. The half-convert was a man in his sixties whose wife was a Christian doctor. He was not a believer, but he loved his wife and supported her humanitarian work on missions around the world. Despite not being a believer, he seemed interested in the Sabbath, so Daddy reasoned there must be hope for him.

When we knocked on this man’s door, he and Daddy talked for hours. He and his wife lived in one of the first fisherman cabins built on Whidbey Island. The location was on the east side of the island and protected from the strongest winds, but it had a wonderful view of the sound and overlooked a small spit where we often walked and collected rocks.

We became friends with “Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl,” as they asked us to call them. Herman loved Volkswagens, and my dad was a Volkswagen mechanic who often bought old bugs and rebuilt the engines before selling them.

Uncle Herman ended up buying one of my dad’s VWs. It was bright orange, and he frequently came by with questions about the engine. Was it supposed to make that vibrating noise? Daddy reassured him that a good Volkswagen purred like a cat.

After several surprise visits to our house to ask about a new concern, Daddy told Uncle Herman he was like an old lady who worried too much. Looking back, I suspect Herman was lonely and wanted an excuse to visit us. He often brought a tin of Aunt Beryl’s homemade peanut brittle.

From the first day we met him, Daddy discussed the Sabbath and his worries about Jimmy Carter winning the election and forcing Sunday laws on everyone. Uncle Herman shook his head at my father’s fears. When Carter won and was preparing to become president, Daddy shared his concerns with Uncle Herman for the umpteenth time.

“What makes you think Carter would do that? Have you got any evidence?”

“We have a prophet in our church who warned us about this.”

I could see Herman’s shoulders drop in exasperation. He had no more faith in our prophet than he had in Jesus.

“I don’t understand how a law can keep anyone from worshiping God if that's what they want to do—after all, you don’t have to worship in a church or with other people.”

Daddy seemed a little annoyed. “Herman, you’re not a believer, so you don’t understand how much the Sabbath means to us.”

Herman shrugged his shoulders again, and that was the end of it.

Even though my father’s teachings seemed to fall on deaf ears. Uncle Herman sometimes sent my dad mail and addressed it to “The Reverend.” Daddy felt Herman respected him even though he disagreed with him.

When Aunt Beryl went to Turkey to do some healthcare for a humanitarian aid organization, Herman went with her. They were gone for a few weeks. When they returned, they brought us some Middle Eastern sweets and several postcards from Turkey. I kept mine in a photo album for years.

I would've been in seventh grade that year, but due to my parents ending my education at that point, I had lots of time to Bible-thump.

I’d also like to go on record for throwing teenage fits for no longer being able to attend school—at least until my protests met up with my father’s belt.

Our missionary zeal had complicated our lives because it was against the law for us kids not to be in school. If Uncle Herman came over during school hours, we kids had to hide in our bedrooms. If we were outside, we had to hide in the shed and not make a noise until Herman left—which might be hours.

By the time Thanksgiving came around, Momma was looking forward to having a crowd around her new table. Of course, only six could fit around the table, but the rest could sit on the sofa and other chairs. Daddy saw it as our spiritual duty to invite and engage as many as people in discussions about the end of the world. No one knew what the new year would bring.

A few days before Thanksgiving, Daddy invited the twins, then he invited Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl. Herman was walking around a red Volkswagen that Daddy was working on and kicked at the tires before looking inside.

“How much are you asking for this one?”

“More than you want to pay.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you always try to jew me down.”

Uncle Herman glared at Daddy with his beady eyes and made a snorting sound.

“Some reverend you are—using a term like that. If you call yourself a Christian, you shouldn’t put any group of people down.”

Daddy excused it by saying that Uncle Herrman was so liberal-minded from all of his travels that he didn’t have the capacity to understand an innocent joke.

Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl did not come over for Thanksgiving dinner that year, but the twins came and brought several young navy men who were all homesick and grateful for a home-cooked meal—even if there was no turkey at our vegetarian house.

In the new year, life moved on in a surprisingly normal manner. The twins were deployed to another base. Uncle Herman continued to stop by from time to time. And Jimmy Carter was sworn in as president and never once threatened a Sunday law.

I grew up, got married, and traveled across the country for my husband’s education.

One day, we sat in horror to see that Timothy McVeigh had blown up the Oklahoma Federal Building. In the days that followed, I was shocked to hear the name of one of the twins in the news as a possible accomplice. He later ended up in prison for sending a bomb to another government building and injuring several people. It turns out the twins were members of Ku Klux Klan when we met them, and they later joined multiple white supremacist organizations. There was nothing Christian about these guys—they had infiltrated our church and led out in our youth group to learn as much as they could about our denomination. Sure they bought us a dining set, but that was only because we were white and they didn’t like sitting on the floor.

My father and the rest of My family were sick to discover the truth about these people we thought were friends. We many questions and feelings about it.

“But they seemed so nice.”

“Did the Bible mean nothing to them?”

“It just goes to show you never really know a person.”

Not long after I got married, I eagerly traveled to Whidbey Island to show my new husband my old stomping ground. We stopped at Uncle Herman and Aunt Beryl’s to say hi. I’d come alone a couple of years before, and Uncle Herman had given me a ride in the orange VW bug, which was still purring along.

Beryl opened the door alone and explained that Herman had recently passed away.

I asked if she was okay, and she said yes—that her faith was stronger than ever.

We had toast and tea with her. I showed my husband the beach. She shared some apples from the little tree I used to play under. We fed the quails when they came out for some toast crumbs.

Before we left, Aunt Beryl described how her father was one of the first settlers on the island and had build this fisherman’s cabin low to the ground to protect it from the winds, but the upper story had great views.

“Would you like to see the views? Go ahead. You can go upstairs and take a look.”

I noticed the steps were steep and narrow.

”My ninety-year-old legs can’t climb anymore, so it might be dusty up there, but enjoy the view.” Her voice faded as we entered the attic.

While my husband went to the window to take in the view, I stood in shock to see menorahs scattered on tables across the room like so many altars. Some were bronze, others looked silver and gold.

I could hear Herman’s voice scolding my dad and my dad’s voice raising fears about persecution due to our Sabbath-keeping and telling Herman he didn’t understand.

Backing down the stairs, I looked into Beryl’s eyes. They were watering like mine.

“Why didn’t Herman tell us he was Jewish?”

“Because he lost family in the war and didn’t know who to trust.”

Reflecting on that Thanksgiving invitation, I now understand why Herman stayed away. Looking back, no one that year was who we imagined they were—not President Carter, not the Navy Twins, not Uncle Herman—and certainly not myself. It turns out I’m not a Bible thumper, after all. But in memory of Uncle Herman, I will continue to insist on the freedom that all people deserve, no matter who they are or what they believe.

© 2024 Cherilyn Christen Clough All rights reserved.