United by theology, divided by race, the little brick churches sit side by side, a million miles apart.

The chapel on the left is for blacks, the one to the right for whites.

Ask the churches' oldest members about the century-old segregation, and they will matter-of-factly tell you that tradition isn't always politically correct.

Ask the new pastors of these Methodist sanctuaries -- good friends who worry their houses of God reflect a world not godly -- and they will tell you this:

"Racism is alive and well, and it's rearing its ugly head in the churches here in little old Shady Side," said the Rev. Roberta Matthews of the all-black St. Matthew's Methodist Church.

"Maybe the problems here aren't so different from what you see in Baltimore or Washington, D.C., or anywhere else in the country," said the Rev. Stephanie Vader of the all-white Centenary Methodist Church, "but in a town this small, the lines of separation are so much more stark, so much more visible."

Almost hesitantly, the two ministers have begun to broach the subjects of godliness, racism, segregation and complacency in this south Anne Arundel County bay-side community of about 3,500.

Together, but from historically separate pulpits, they have preached. Counseled. Challenged.

The clergywomen -- one black and one white -- raise a mighty question, the kind of moral inquiry that makes people squirm in their pews, ready for the sermon to end:

Could it be that the absolute segregation of these two churches, which sit geographically and emotionally in the heart of the community, is symbolic of a bigger problem in this placid community?

Look closely:

Notice the majority of black Shady Side residents live in a gated community in one compact corner of the peninsula town, on streets named for black notables such as Haile Selassie and Jackie Robinson.

Read the history of this place, about the generations of blacks who have always made their living as maids and oyster shuckers, gardeners and crab pickers for white employers.

And see what happens every Sunday morning in front of St. Matthew's Methodist Church and Centenary Methodist Church, what has happened without fail since 1867, when blacks and whites go separate directions to pray to the same God.

"When I first came here, I thought the two churches were very indicative of Shady Side as a whole," said Vader, a bespectacled 30-year-old minister in her first clergy position. "You had your blacks over here, your whites over here. And never between the two shall meet."

Part of black culture

Long before the Civil War, before waterfront property was a hot commodity, black men brought their families to Shady Side, to live near the Chesapeake Bay while they worked as watermen. Since then, St. Matthew's and Sunday worship have been integral parts of black culture in Shady Side.

"There was a time in the history of African-Americans where religion was all they really had," said Vince Leggett, head of an Annapolis-based research project called Blacks of the Chesapeake. "They owned nothing, or were slaves, and had nothing of their own except their God and their worship. So they made it their own, and the result was very different from what whites practiced on Sunday."

The music and prayer at St. Matthew's is so boisterous, so heartfelt, that it is easy to imagine the clamor is audible somewhere very far above.

"I suppose the way we worship would be a turnoff to some white people," said Teresa Fountain, a member of St. Matthew's since 1957. "And that very likely is one of the reasons these neighboring churches have always stayed separate."

Fountain and her husband, John, attended segregated schools. So did one of their children, and the black couple remember the years leading up to the Supreme Court's striking down of the "separate but equal" doctrine in 1954.

"But our grandchildren don't," the 60-year-old woman said. "And I guess we may be raising a generation that someday will say, 'Why are we keeping these two churches separate?' We now go to school together, work together, play sports together. Why not pray together?"

'Things are good here'

Today, sensitive to the separation of races at the two churches, many white locals point out that families in Shady Side were among the first in Maryland to free their slaves.

"Things are good here," said Howard Shenton, a 79-year-old white man who moved to Shady Side as a boy, in the days when roads were paved with oyster shells and the only ways on and off the peninsula were by horse or steamboat. "As far as race relations go, things have always been good, I'd say."

Shenton, a retired marine police-man, calls the Chesapeake Bay surrounding Shady Side "the great equalizer."

"Out there, catching oysters or crabs or fish or whatever else, it works this way," he said. "You work hard, you make it. If not, you don't."

His wife, Glorious, a lifelong member of Centenary Methodist whose middle name, Legna, is "angel" spelled backward, said: "When you're out on that rough water on a cold winter day, you're glad for any friend you find. Color has nothing to do with it."

Most white residents agree.

"I wouldn't say you see any breakdown of race relations here at all," said George Daly, while giving a driving tour of Shady Side.

Inside the post office, one of the happening spots along the town's main street, it appears Shenton and Daly are right. A middle-aged black man talks to an elderly white man. Two black men join them. A gray-haired white woman strikes up a conversation with the group.

No breakdown of race relations at all.

'You can't. You aren't black'

Not long ago, a group of little boys was playing outside the two Methodist churches.

One white boy told the black boys he wanted to sing in the St. Matthew's children's choir, well known around town to be loud and talented.

"But you can't," the kids told him. "You aren't black."

Vader heard about that. It broke her heart.

"I wanted to tell those kids, 'That's not right. That's not the way it is,' " she said. "But I knew they could throw back at me, 'But that's what you do every Sunday.' And they would be right. We are not living what we are preaching."

The two Methodist churches were started just a year apart -- Centenary in 1866 and St. Matthew's in 1867.

All these years later, stories abound about why the churches remain segregated.

Elderly whites at Centenary tell a tale alleging that blacks were initially members of their church, but defected and formed their own congregation when made to worship from the balcony.

Aging blacks at St. Matthew's remember when they would see their white employers outside the neighboring church on Sunday morning, and no greetings of recognition were exchanged.

And the congregations adamantly disagree on worship styles. At St. Matthew's, folks want their Sunday sermon long and winding. At Centenary, they pray it will be short and succinct.

A typical Sunday service at St. Matthew's runs far beyond the point where stomaches start rumbling for lunch, while Centenary's final hymn comes an hour after the service starts.

Inside St. Matthew's, the congregation claps, stomps, dances and sings along with the choir and talks right back to the preacher during her sermon. At Centenary, they appreciate traditional organ music and expect their preacher to preach, not interact.

"They can't believe we have drums at our service," Matthews said.

"And they can't believe we sit so still and quiet at ours," said Vader. "We've been nicknamed 'the Frozen Chosen.' "

Tradition, style of worship

Whatever the reasons, however culturally and historically those reasons are embedded, the fact remains that the two congregations have little interest in becoming one. Neither wants to see its tradition lost, its worship style changed, its sanctuary unused.

"It really comes down to this: Are people willing to step outside of their comfort zones and deal with the race issues surrounding this segregation?" Vader said. "And, for now anyway, I'd say they aren't quite there."

Both churches, with growing congregations and crumbling buildings, are in the midst of major fund raising to repair and expand their facilities. St. Matthew's is almost finished with a $500,000 renovation, and Centenary is hoping to begin renovations soon.

"It's amazing," said Matthews. "We probably could have built a brand-new church to house both congregations for less than we'll end up paying for the two renovations. But there isn't the support to do that."

Almost annually, a rumor will circulate that the church area's bishop is considering a forced consolidation of the two congregations. The two pastors have dire predictions about how that would turn out.

"If these churches were forced together, it would absolutely destroy two houses of worship," Matthews said.

"It would be horrible," Vader said.

Brought back together

The two ministers met for the first time several years ago, on the Sunday both were ordained. They liked each other immediately but went their separate ways, assigned to churches in different states.

Three years ago, the bishop transferred Matthews, a 59-year-old minister who greets strangers with a hug and talks frequently about communicating directly with God, from an inner-city church in Washington to her hometown of Shady Side. The next year, Vader got her orders to become the pastor at Centenary.

"I saw her, remembered her, and knew this was going to be very special," Matthews said. "Right then, I said, 'God, are you telling us to do something here?' "

When the two ministers are together, they play off one another, finishing each other's sentences, earnestly talking about church and Scripture, commandments and callings.

"The absolute separation of races you see here is not representative of the kingdom of heaven," said Matthews over lunch at a local cafe.

"Not at all representative of the body of Christ," Vader said.

"God, help us," Matthews continued. "Something has to be done."

"Amen," said Vader. "Amen."

Church's credo

Ten years ago, when Bob Lee moved his family to Shady Side from Western Maryland, he was shocked by the separation of the two churches. The father of two connects with the credo of the Methodist Church for one main reason: It claims to be inclusive to all.

"When I first moved, I thought, 'How can we call ourselves inclusive when we aren't?'" he said. "It bothered me quite a bit. It really did."

But as he got to know the people of each church, as he became more involved in the community, Lee grew more comfortable with the segregation.

"I realized that this wasn't hateful or intentional," said Lee, a civil engineer who is a Centenary church board officer. "It wasn't necessarily about some horrible underlying black-vs.-white issue. It's more about different worship styles and what I would say is a natural human instinct to be drawn to those like ourselves."

"Sure, sometimes I wonder why can't we just be one big church," he said. "But the fact of the matter is there are realistic logistic problems. There are two buildings there. Both congregations wouldn't fit in just one. And what do you propose? Tearing one down? Or both? Starting over? It doesn't really make sense."

But other members of Centenary are deeply saddened by the situation.

Brenda Early, 51, who attended all-white schools while growing up in Shady Side, is ready for the self-imposed segregation to end.

"I know there is some opposition for it," she said, "but I'd love to see those churches together. I'd love to live to see that."

In the past several years, at the insistence of Vader and Matthews, Centenary and St. Matthew's have become increasingly cooperative. The churches have joint vacation Bible school classes. At least once a year, the two ministers switch churches for a Sunday.

And a couple of times a year, they have joint services.

At one of the first combined services, when the racially blended choir walked up the aisle holding hands, many in the congregation cried.

"It's so sad," someone told Vader after the service. "All those people, I used to stand with at the bus stop, play with after school. And then we grew up and didn't interact socially or religiously."

On the last Sunday of this month, when the church bells toll at 10 a.m., the two little churches will worship together on the lawns connecting their separate sanctuaries.

If Vader and Matthews are looking for material for their sermons, they need look no further than 1 Corinthians 1: 10: "Now I beseech you, brethren, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you all speak the same thing, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly joined together in the same mind and in the same judgment."

Pub Date: 9/07/98