[This story is a continuation of Ladies Bible Club: Parts 1 and 2. To read the previous posts, click Ladies Bible Club under the  category section at right. Once you're on that page, the chronology is reversed, but I'm sure you can figure it out.]

I had never attended an official Ladies Bible Club.  I’d definitely never attended one that came with thick, glossy workbooks and a series of slickly produced DVDs featuring lady super preacher Tina Bundance and her “electrifying” sermons, so I was mildly curious when club hostess May dimmed the lights, and cued the first DVD, which I noticed was titled, “Raise a Cup to the Divine.”

May, Julie and Jennifer all sat on the couch.  I felt the urge to lie on my belly right in front of the flatscreen, a move I hoped would be interpreted as rapt attention,  but I also didn’t want the other women to see my face in the event the DVD was crazy, and I reverted to my usual cynical grimaces.

The DVD opened with a long shot of a big, beautiful home in what looked like the middle of the woods—or more likely a heavily wooded development of McMansions in the exurbs of Dallas. Leaves swirled across the lens, underscored by a stirring Kenny G-type melody in the background, as the camera closed in on the wraparound front porch. Pumpkins and gourds lined the front steps.  A wood railing surrounding the porch was wound with a lush garland. Two rocking chairs moved gently in the breeze.

The front door opened, and out stepped Tina Bundance. Loose fitting brown slacks and a cream-colored autumn-inspired sweater hung off her thin frame. Her frosted blond hair was in one of those haphazard ponytails that require much hairspray and styling. She walked toward the camera, leaned her elbows on the railing. She closed her eyes and deeply inhaled the crisp, autumn air. Upon opening them, she looked into the camera, said, “Welcome, friends.”  Her makeup was impeccable.

After an introductory chat describing how Jesus holds a special place in his heart for women, she invited us, the viewers, to join her on this spiritual journey. “Come on in,” she beckoned the camera toward the front door. “We’re waiting for you.”

The camera cut to the living room, which was decorated in a style I’d call ‘autumnal plush,’ overstuffed couches and chairs, wreaths and garlands of every interpretation, bowls of potpourri and wall art that perfectly matched the foliage-inspired color palette of the room.

Seated were five to six women, who I assume were a few of Tina’s acolytes. They sat pensively, as if camera shy. A round-table commenced, in which Tina asked each member of the group how they found their way into Tina’s spiritual orbit.

Most of the women, either due to nerves or hesitation, had a difficult time articulating precisely what they were doing there, but the overriding message seemed to be: “I am here because I was lost, but now I am found so…I am here.”

The camera eventually faded to black, and re-opened inside Tina’s mega-church called The One The Only outside Dallas. It was so huge it looked like the inside of a baseball stadium during the World Series, only the interior was awash in peach tones and likely scented with candles called something like Pumpkin Spice. Lush bouquets of flowers and plants and more gourds were strategically scattered about, presumably to give the event a down-home, though thoroughly upper middle class Texas touch.

Every seat in the house was filled, mostly with blond, white women who, in close-up, seemed to also have a penchant for styling product.

Eventually Tina took the stage. She was dressed in another version of her previous outfit, only this time the dominant color was cranberry. She wore a tiny headset microphone, and moved hyper-kinetically across the stage like a bunny rabbit on Red Bull. She was talking so quickly and with such rapid-fire precision that I thought this might be a good time for a refill of Yellow Tail, but I was too self-concsious to move. If I got up, I thought May might think ‘the alcoholic rises.’

Whenever Tina wanted an affirmation from the audience, she’d say, ‘Amen?’ As in, ”Jesus doesn’t care how much money you have, amen?  He doesn’t care what kind of car you drive, amen?  He doesn’t care if Neimans is having a blowout sale on Carolina Herrera, AMEN??’    The audience roared with laughter at that last one, and shouted ‘Amen’ back to her. A thread of commonality had been established, signaling the discussion was about to get serious.

She revealed that before she found God, she was once an alcoholic, a drug abuser. “Why do women drink?” she asked. “Why do we pop pills? Why do we want to get high?”   My ears perked up. I’d always assumed women of this demographic didn’t “pop pills” or “get high.”  Sip White Zinfandel, sure, but pop Oxy?  No way. Though I had to concede this was testament to my own glaring provincialism than anything else.

“We do it…..to…..feel…..something,” she eventually got around to saying. “We do it to feel anything.”

I found myself nodding in agreement.

She continued. “We do it because we become numb to our own existence.”

I kept nodding but ceased suddenly when I remembered May, Julie and Jennifer were five feet behind me.

“We do it because we forget we’re already plugged into the source,” Tina said.  Then she asked very quietly, “Who is the source?”

“Jesus,” the congregation responded in unison.

“WHO IS THE SOURCE, AMEN?” She flung her skinny body to the other side of the stage with such fervor I thought she might fall off.

“JESUS!!!” Everyone cried.

The DVD eventually ended. May switched on a lamp beside the couch. No one said anything. Still on my belly, I stared into the blackness of the flatscreen, and could see the reflections of May, Julie and Jennifer on the couch behind me.  I almost didn’t want to turn around because I was afraid they’d try to gauge my reaction.

“So….what did you guys think?” asked Julie, somewhat breathlessly.

“I thought it was really amazing,” said Jennifer. “My favorite part was when she talked about how Jesus is actually closer to women than men. I’ve always felt that to be true.  He identifies with more with our struggles than with theirs, and to hear Tina say that was validating.”

“What did you think, Jessie?” May asked.

“Uh, that was powerful stuff,” I said. “The part where she talked about popping pills to feel something, I……”  I stopped since to continue in this vein would have invited questions about my past, a history that was more or less that of a good girl’s — at least by hipster Manhattan standards — but wasn’t exactly checkered with sorority caroling parties and cotillions.  ”Was Tina Bundance really addicted to pills?”

“I think she’s struggled with demons just as we all have,” May cleared her throat. “But no, I don’t think Tina Bundance was addicted to drugs, just alcohol.”

Right, because alcohol is the socially tolerated addiction for women of this milieu.

For homework, we were required to read select passages from Genesis and answer questions in the workbook that corresponded to the sermon we just watched.

As I gathered my things and said my goodbyes, May came over and gave me a feathery hug. “I’m sooo glad you could come,” she said. “It’s so interesting to have a different perspective. Will you come again next week?”

“Oh, sure thing,” I said, or more like gushed.

As I walked out to my car, I felt a minor twitch of contentment. I had done it. I had made it through my first Bible meeting without falling back on my usual jaded cynicism. I had tried to keep an open mind throughout the hour-long DVD, and the truth was — gawd, what would my friends back in NYC say??? — some of what Tina Bundance talked about actually resonated with me.  Maybe this crazy, reformed boozehound with anchorwoman hair could teach me something. It was almost inconceivable….and yet.

I’d always liked to think my mind was incredibly open — this, despite a lifetime seeped in skepticism — and what better test of my newfound capacity for real, 100 percent genuine tolerance than to immerse myself in a ladies-only Scripture circle with three conservative southern debutantes?

Maybe my husband’s optimistic nature — which I found myself increasingly envious of —  and deep-seated spirituality — which I’d begun to consider might be the cause of that optimistic nature — was rubbing off on me. By inserting myself in this strange new world, I liked to think that I was demonstrating a fearlessness to go where other supposedly open-minded, culturally-sensitive urbanites wouldn’t dare. I was becoming  a better person. A more loving, open person.

And, truth be told, having recently moved to a new town, I had absolutely nothing better going on.

I pushed the cork deeper into my half-empty—half-full, HALF-FULL—bottle of Yellow Tail and started up the car, excited to tell Jake about my first session at Bible school.

To be continued…

[This story is a continuation of Ladies Bible Club: Part 1. Scroll down to read part 1, or click Ladies Bible Club under the  category section at right.]

I still don’t know why I joined a Ladies Bible Club. I’m not religious. Just being inside a church makes me tired. So I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing one Tuesday evening, parked in front of a gorgeous, well-manicured Victorian home, the site of my first official bible club meeting.

On some level, I knew I was joining the club because I thought my husband—a Christian—would find it endearing. Besides, Jake never pressed me about my religious beliefs, so I guess I felt free to explore these issues on my own. And, to be honest, I had nothing better going on. Since moving to the rural south, I felt like I was living in a parallel universe where Carhartt-wearing cowgirls, big trucks and livestock reigned supreme, things so far outside of my normal realm of experience that if Bible Clubs constituted the bulk of social interactions around here, I had no choice but to throw-down with the King James crowd.

I eyed the two bottles of wine I brought with me laying on the passenger seat. There was no way I could go through a Bible meeting without a hit off the ole Yellow Tail, but I knew that if I brought both in, I would forever be branded as ‘the Yankee with the drinking problem,’ one of the hazards of living in a small town. So I left one in the car for backup, and marched to the front door.

I was let in by May*, the stunningly gorgeous, 20-something hostess. She  was so polished and put-together, so tall and slender, a real southern debutante, that being around her made me feel like I was raised at an OTB. She coolly eyed my bottle of Yellow Tail.

“Whoa—it was a bottle of water a few minutes ago,” I sheepishly cracked. “I guess He needs a drink.”

I was ushered into the living room where I was greeted by two more gorgeous and polished, young Southern ladies. One, named Julie, was very pregnant and seemed to sink further into the plush sofa with every passing moment. The other, Jennifer, who wore a quilted headband and pearl earrings, was on the tail end of remarking, “I am so excited to watch the DVD!”

I was distracted from the mention of the DVD by a very intriguing cheese plate set on the coffee table before me. I helped myself to some crackers and a large wedge of brie and scanned the living room. On top of a nearby bookcase were several decorative pastel suitcases stacked in order of size, a mise en scene evoking somebody’s Victorian grandmother preparing to board a choo-choo train for a long journey.

“Jessie, would you like….some wine?” I felt sure May was trying her utmost to disguise notes of condescension.

I pretended to weigh the offer.  “Mm, yes, a drop of wine might be nice.”  I thought Southern girls might say things like ‘a drop of wine might be nice.’

Jennifer handed me a thick, glossy workbook emblazoned with a dreamscape of pastel flowers set against the title, Alive—Truly. I flipped through the book as May set a glass of wine before me.

Pages were filled with daily homework from Tina Bundance, the nationally recognized nondenominational “lady super preacher” on whom—besides Jesus, presumably—the LBC was based. Homework seemed to consist of lists, true/false questions, Q&As and lots of fill-in-the-blanks that reminded me of Mad Libs: “God’s promise to women is the _________ of Scripture.” Fulfillment? Testament? Embodiment?  What could the right adjective be? Only a careful reading of the book of Luke would hold the answer.

I took a large gulp of wine.

After some introductory chitchat that basically boiled down to ascertaining the depth of our respective religious beliefs (May, Julie and Jennifer—aboard the bullet train to heaven; Jessie—wandering aimlessly around the station in search of a snack machine), there was a painful moment of silence as each of us contemplated that one of us was not like the others.

“So,” I finally offered, lightly drumming my fingers into the upholstered armrest of my chair. “What’s this about a DVD?”

Jennifer’s eyes lit up as she clapped her hands together. “Oh, you guys are going to love Tina Bundance! She is amazing!”

To be continued…

* names and identifying characteristics have been changed

When you move to the rural south, and you’re female, it’s only a matter of time before some kind stranger drops by your house loaded with agrarian tokens of friendship — a bouquet of sunflowers, a bag of tomatoes, a quart of homemade wine — and very kindly offer to take you under her wing. Show you the rural ropes, so to speak. Which I’ve come to realize is a euphemism for you need to join a Ladies Bible Club.

I’ve been asked to join three Ladies Bible Clubs since moving here.

My foray into LBC indoctrination began the day one of Jake’s older female friends—a woman he used to ride horses with when in college—dropped by while we were working in the yard. She presented us with vegetables, homemade jam and, just for me, leaflets advertising God’s promise to His lost children.

I took the leaflets and suddenly felt tired. I noticed Jake—a lifelong Bible reader—casually amble off to another section of yard. Here it comes, I thought. I’m about to get talked at.

This lovely woman, who wore Wranglers and a work shirt and lived on a nearby farm with her husband and two daughters, knew I had just moved here from New York City. In her mind, this meant I probably—no, most definitely—needed to be saved.  But I could tell she was hesitant to broach the subject . Her uncharacteristically humble demeanor conveyed a desire to play it cool or risk scaring me off.

She told me about the great friendships she’s made over the years as a result of belonging to a Bible group, and how membership in this sacred circle had given her a deeper appreciation of the Scriptures, and of life in general. Her Bible club, she added, “is not like that,” as if to imply I wouldn’t encounter any lady Jerry Falwell-type zealots,  no way.

“No pressure,” she said. “But I think you might like it.” She added as a final enticement, “We’re an interesting bunch.”

“It does sound interesting,” I said, even though it sounded so uninteresting the very thought of it made me want to leap into Jake’s Bobcat and build a fence with him in some barrren, dusty field.

After she drove off, I sat down on the wicker loveseat on our front poach and opened the slick-looking pamphlet. “Are you pining to be delivered from acres of life-accumulated dirt, bone-chilling darkness, spirit-deadening anger, heart-breaking desperation and mind-numbing confusion?”  It read.

Yes. A pang of familiarity coursed through me. My blood sugar level is low—when’s lunch?

On the inside was a color photograph of a woman named Tina Bundance. She was dressed in what I’d describe as upper middle class Christian casual—sensible slacks, a demure sleeveless shell top showing off very thin arms, and accessorized with lots of tasteful gold jewelry. She was 100 percent Southern Belle—glittering white teeth, blue-eyes, with a frosted meringue of anchor-woman hair fashioned with hairspray.

I read her bio and learned that Tina Bundance was a phenomenon in the Christian world. She’d written multiple books and was regarded as a super preacher, specializing in Christian womens’ issues. Her base of operation was something called The One The Only—which I took to mean a sprawling, mega church—somewhere outside of Dallas, Texas. For fun, she taught Christian aerobics.

I deduced that it was Tina Bundance’s trademarked, mass-marketed Bible study group I had been asked to join. Something about this woman intrigued me.

Jake came over and sat down beside me. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”

Mmm,” I demurred. “Christian aerobics sound….fun?”

Religion had always been somewhat of a tender topic between me and my husband.

I was raised in an extended family of Mormons on one side, and Fundamentalists on the other. Even as a little girl, the thought of a future without coffee, beer, short-shorts, swearing or dirty dancing had led me to a place of deep spiritual ambivalence, to put it mildly.

Jake, on the other hand, was avowedly Christian. Raised in a Christian home, he spent his teens heavily involved in the Christian youth camp Young Life. He read the Bible and other religious books every night, and prayed before dinner.  I didn’t mind any of this. In fact, I liked it. I actually respected it because  Jake was one of the few people I’d ever  met who was so completely secure in his faith and at peace with himself that he wasn’t dogmatic or even vocal about his beliefs. He didn’t feel compelled to show anyone The Light, not even me.

I knew this because I’d asked him. “Are you cool with this?” I inquired one night as we stared up at the stars in the backyard . “Are you okay with the fact that I, your wife and future mother of your children, may never ‘play for the Christian team’?”

Jake sighed. “Well,” he turned to me with a slight smile. “I know where I’m going when I die and I hope you go there with me.”

I thought about this. I guess what he meant is that in our next lives the religion question might be a problem—what with me burning in hell and Jake nonchalantly nibbling figs in heaven—but in this life, it’s a non-issue.

Works for me.

And yet—I couldn’t help but wonder if Jake’s sunny optimism and deep contentment with life—even in the face of hardship—was the result of his commitment to the Man Upstairs.  As someone who’s always had a problem seeing the glass half-full, I yearned for some of those qualities. I was almost envious of him. I actually found myself wondering, can religion really help me tap into my own inner peace? Can Tina Bundance show me the way? Will I ever experience Christian aerobics? It was partially a challenge, and partially for sheer novelty. My lifestyle had taken such a drastic turn since leaving New York City. I was so out of my usual context that it seemed nothing I did even mattered anymore. Just living here was such an anomoly to my senses that—why wouldn’t I join a Ladies Bible Club?

Tina Bundance, meet your latest disciple.

To be continued…