Feeding the Spirit at the Crossroads of Race and Religion

This past Sunday morning, as I was heading to my church (late) I took a shortcut that let me avoid several traffic lights. This little detour takes me down quaint neighborhood streets lined with old trees and tidy brick town homes. On the corner of one these streets stands a large African-American Baptist church that was founded in the early 1800s and which boasts a lively, thriving congregation. As I was passing the church, I decided that maybe this was the perfect Sunday to take a little spiritual detour from my usual church routine. 

My church is a lovely, historic Episcopalian church. On paper, it is predominantly white and middle-class and its congregates are well-educated and well-connected, working in the halls of government and the corridors of power that make Washington, DC tick. In reality, though, my church's pews are filled with people living their lives while dealing with the struggles that test our faith. Worship in this space, while ordered according to the rites of the Book of Common Prayer and the readings of the Lexicon, is also low on the pomp and the circumstance. It's a striking contrast to the very formal facade of the church building and grounds and most visitors are caught unawares by the warmth that resides just under the surface if you can get past the impressive brick and mortar. Crossing the threshold, I'm greeted by our smiling ushers, who press a service bulletin into my hand and ask how I'm doing. When I'm running late (which is often), and my husband drops me off so that he can circle the block to find parking, my church family greet me with outstretched hands from their pews as an usher leads me to an open pew, while still another usher directs my hubby, now finished with his valet duties, over to where I'm sitting. Our clergy team deliver thoughtful sermons that engage and challenge us, and the choir sends us marching out to greet the world at the end of the service.

So, what more could I need? 

Well, really, I should rephrase this question, because I don't need more, I need different. But, what do I mean by "different"? Growing up as an African-American Roman Catholic in a predominantly white church community, my family was constantly in search of a way to meld our love of the Church and its rituals with our identities as African Americans. Long before Whoopi Goldberg was leading fictional nuns in a Gospel-infused "Salve Regina" in the movie "Sister Act", my family was cobbling together a spiritual quilt of sorts. Sunday mornings, while we were getting ready for Mass, Grandma tuned the living room stereo to Patrick Ellis and his Sunday morning Gospel music show on WHUR. We listened as he read birthday requests to Sister So-and-So and Deacon So-and-So and gave contact information for church bus trips to the shopping outlets in Redding, PA. Ellis' playlist included that Shirley Caesar chestnut, "No Charge", the O'Neal Twins' "Jesus Dropped the Charges", and Rev.F.C.Barnes' "Rough Side of the Mountain." Once in a while Ellis would let his country show and there would be some Harmonizing Four or Sensational Nightingales. The show continued in the car on the way to Mass, and there were plenty of Sunday mornings when Mom or Grandma would hold us up in the church parking lot, because, as they would say it, "My song is on!" Once inside of the church, all of the joy of our morning was quickly sucked out by the bland music of our Roman Catholic hymnal. In a church packed with a couple of hundred folks on a typical Sunday the sound of our singing was never earth shattering. The preaching was perfunctory, except for a brief period when a law professor-turned priest came to our parish. His preaching style was so inviting. He wore a wireless microphone and strode down the center aisle  - that's right, without note cards! It was like the first TED Talk!   

It wasn't uncommon during this time for us to go and visit another church. Usually the draw was a charismatic preacher in town for a revival, or on the occasion of a family friend's church choir anniversary concert. On each of these occasions, the churches we visited were all African American. Mom and Grandma would put a little more care into dressing  - a lot more flair, more makeup, dresses instead of trousers and a nice blouse, and perfume, lots of perfume. My sister and I were on our best behavior and my unruly Afro was subjected to the pressing comb and pin-curling the day before. On these special Sundays, the first thing I noted was just how long the services were compared to our Catholic church. At our home church, Sunday Mass took one hour, with the only exceptions being Christmas Eve and the Easter vigil (and one additional exception when Father Downs, an avid football fan, sped through Mass on game day, getting us out in 38 minutes!). The second thing I noted was the music. It was as if I was sitting in a live-action version of WHUR's Sunday morning Gospel show.  Oceans of song just poured down on me - wave after wave. And there was a feeling of warm that just cracked open from a place so deep inside of me that it stunned me. Was this that Holy Spirit that all of the songs talked about? It was awesome and it was scary and I wanted more. It was like tasting the best thing you'd ever tasted in your life and wondering how you'd never tasted it before. 

Walking into the vestibule of this African American church this past Sunday morning as the ushering team of ladies in their bright white suits and white gloves prayed together I felt both alien and at home. And then, as is this church's custom, a period of prayer and praise began and we, the congregation, were invited to stand up and sing. The organist and the band began to play, and the tune was a familiar one to me. Before I could open my mouth to sing, my eyes filled with tears and I knew in that moment that my spirit was filled to bursting. I don't know what that means for the future, but, for the first time, I'm not going to ignore what my spirit craves.