I joined St. Martha's Guild, as Fr. M. recommended. Their mission was organizing fund-raising activities – rummage sales, bake sales, and an annual cruise on the bay. It was time-consuming and boring. I spent an afternoon sitting at a table selling baked goods outside of a local Walmart where one of the members who worked there got permission for us to set up outside. As for the cruise, after weeks of preparation and organizing, and paying various fees, the profit was negligible. I calculated that we could have raised the money without the effort if each member of St. Martha's guild had just kicked in $25.
A friend explained to me that this wasn't the point. Members of St. Martha's guild liked making the effort. I did not. I had my work and a family to take care of. This was a relic of how the church had operated in earlier days. Men contributed money; women, who didn't have money, contributed time and work.
The high point of one year for St. Martha's Guild was the Madonna Tea. St. John's, anomalous amongst Episcopal churches, was a largely working-class parish and D., as a paralegal, was one of the parish elite. I never mentioned what I did for a living and, as I learnt later, people believed that I was a library assistant at the local public library where my husband was a librarian.
For the Madonna Tea we were to bring baked goods and a Madonna object to display and discuss. D. had a large collection of madonnas, including one that plugged in and lit up.
I dressed up for the tea. In my quest for ordination I'd gotten a perm and clothes. I brought along an icon my colleague M., an RC priest with whom I was close, had left me and a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies. D. and her helpers set up little plates with baked goods without my cookies but made a little fuss about how I wasn't to be hurt because my cookies weren't on the plates because they just wouldn't fit. It was all like your contribution is inferior but we're being terribly nice. I thought this was hilarious – I was not invested in my cookies.
I told the story about my Madonna, which had been in a colleague's office, and which he'd passed on to me, and which was now in my office. One of my friends at St. John's always laughed at me for the way I referred to 'my colleague M.' But he was my closest friend in the department. If I hadn't been married and he hadn't been an RC priest we would have been together.
I thought that the Madonna Tea and a lot of other doings at St. John's were amusing. There was the Mary statue at whose feet S., the rectoress dowager, had buried two of her little lap dogs. I loved the place but, in some respects, it was alien. And after the church burnt down when we were moving stuff across to the parish hall I got slammed. Standing around in a clump of people the choir director asked if we could move a little spinet piano across to the parish hall. I joined in without thinking. But when we got there one of the guys yelled at me 'what are you trying to prove!' He immediately apologized, and I took it like a good sport, but it was a punch in the stomach.
I realized then that I had to be careful at St. John's. When the rector announced that some digging had to be done and asked for volunteers, I packed a shovel and cruised around the property. I saw that the diggers were all young guys in tee shirts and went home. When he announced again that painting needed to be done, I packed rags and brushes and cruised. After seeing that there were women painting I parked, brought my rags and brushes to the site, and got to work. I made a mental note: women may paint; may not dig. Church was a place where I had to be careful.