Rebel in a Hat

She belonged in Washington DC, where she’d set right all the wrongs in the US government, but in our little church she created tempests. At a Church Council meeting one morning Diane stormed in like Carrie Nation let loose in a pub.

The only indication that trouble might erupt that day was the spring wind, making my nose itch, moving new leaves, sighing a warning. Inside the church, nine council members chatted amiably around a square of tables arranged at the far end of the sanctuary. To me, their minister, with their gray heads and benign faces, they looked like a gathering of grandparents. Smells of decaf and warm muffins, touched with a whiff of cleanliness, emanated from the small kitchen. I felt confident the meeting would proceed as usual.

Just as we quieted to begin discussions, Diane appeared in the doorway, startling us. A short, middle-aged woman — not a member of the council — she took three steps into the room and stood behind Pat, our choir representative. Though she wore a pink sweatshirt with a sequined pansy pattern on the front, she burst in like a courier from a war zone.

“I would like to address the Council,” she declared. Her eyes blazed behind shining eyeglasses. “You need to hear what’s gone off the rails around here. I’ve got a list of problems that can’t wait!” Hugging a clipboard to her flowery pink breast, she added, “The Council must get to these matters before our church falls apart!”

When Diane stopped for a breath, the silence left me worried — about the collapse of civility, I suppose. Would we descend into shouting?

“If this Council wants to manage a real church,” she resumed, “then you’d better see to it that enough people are on hand early on Sundays, that the heater is working, and we get some competent person on the sound system! Who knows when the toilets will back up?”

The toilets?

At the request of the moderator, I began an opening prayer, hoping to dissipate the tension. Diane bowed her head. A good sign. “Be with us this morning, O God,” I began, “as we think about the work of this church and try to respond to the needs around us ….”

As soon as I said the Amen, Jack, our chairperson, faced our sequined visitor. “We are not going to discuss your complaints now, Diane. I think you’d better leave.” And peace returned to our sanctuary.

Some months later, when Diane was elected chairperson of the congregation, the first thing she asked me was “How much power will I have?” I told her that if they could find the money, she could make changes. I don’t know whether she clapped her hands like a leprechaun at the sight of a pot of gold, but I know she’d been waiting for this opportunity to assert herself in matters usually dominated by men.

I supported Diane’s leadership, and she and I attended area meetings, where she often felt the need to give an impromptu speech. The more she stood for her principles, the more I admired her. On one of our trips to a meeting, she told me some of her history. She’d married as a teen and left home before finishing high school. After she raised her two children, she attended night school, got a diploma, and took training to become a public-health worker.

Diane campaigned to expand our church building, with a larger kitchen, a new minister’s office, and a choir room. She unleashed energy we didn’t know we had, and members added their expertise to the projects. With the addition of a hand-tooled oak bookcase, we now had a church library. We replaced conventional wall decorations with brightly stitched banners. The plastic inserts in the walls of the entry were transformed into artistic glass designs of purple grapes and golden stalks of wheat.

However, as in many clubs, sports teams and legislatures, the person who has the most ambitious, innovative ideas is disliked. The harder Diane worked, and the more beautiful the surroundings became, the more people complained. They didn’t like a progressive woman taking charge.

I regretted my helplessness to change the way people felt, and I publicly applauded Diane’s changes. Then, just when I thought the negativity was going away, our controversial change-agent took to wearing a hat to church on Sunday mornings! She’d crowned herself in a straw creation blooming with flowers and ribbons as she sat surrounded by the transformations powered by her passion.

Unlike Jesus, who chose to walk away from a hostile community, our proud Carrie Nation stayed on and remained a member of our new, beautiful church, attending every Sunday morning — in a hat.