The church door is opened by an oak colored woman. She greets you with a smile while saying, “Where are you visiting from?” Good morning to you too my Sister. Your feet touch the traditional red carpet, eyes look for the perfect red pew to receive the Lord, but in stepping closer to the sanctuary, you are bum rushed by ushers in black. God’s got secret service agents and they go to church in Harlem. They turn you toward the stairs.
Three flights of concrete later, the nose bleed section, and you are among your Harlem church family: A sea of wide-eyed, white faces seated in at least 12 rows all the way up to the ceiling. You notice anticipation in their eyes, realize those visitors are here for a show. Who’s Jesus anyway? You’re corralled and seated like a cow to a stable.
Segregation? Yes. Black privilege? No. Couldn’t be... Yes, it could. You blink hard and hold it for a moment, force your eyes away from that shocking portrait of sameness and try to make eye contact with the man at the podium. He never looks up from the first-floor, you assume members-only congregation. He never makes you visible, never acknowledges that you came from afar, paid good money to be in the house of Lord. Except you didn’t pay; the tourists behind you, chatting as if 200 whispers can’t be heard, did.
The choir makes a grand entrance. You forgive cliché and finally understand what angels sound like. Tears well up and go down your face. And those tourists, well, they herd out immediately after the concert, before their formal welcome: A sister speaks of being a visitor, a stranger, in God’s house. She shouts out at least seven countries represented this Sunday morning and welcomes them all, even though their representatives have already left. She closes with Hebrews 13:2, “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for some have entertained angels unawares.”
Momma says don’t knock blessing, can’t blame a church for knowing the same. And so you see. Yes. You see. More than a child of God, here to receive blessings from the word, you are a butt in a seat. You are a spectator. Or maybe you were just caught up, present with the wrong color of visitors. But never mind. You were entertained, and wasn’t that the point, or at least the church’s point?
Either way, part of you wants to come back next week, alone, see if you can slide into a pew on the first floor just to trick the man. The other part of you can’t help but wonder how much a group rate is at such an establishment. Too quickly, you hope the choir gets a cut of whatever is the tourists’ mighty dollar and you opt to leave early, knowing you can pray and praise well enough alone. Besides, it’s first Sunday, and you’d rather thank God for coffee than communion.
Three flights of concrete later, the nose bleed section, and you are among your Harlem church family: A sea of wide-eyed, white faces seated in at least 12 rows all the way up to the ceiling. You notice anticipation in their eyes, realize those visitors are here for a show. Who’s Jesus anyway? You’re corralled and seated like a cow to a stable.
Segregation? Yes. Black privilege? No. Couldn’t be... Yes, it could. You blink hard and hold it for a moment, force your eyes away from that shocking portrait of sameness and try to make eye contact with the man at the podium. He never looks up from the first-floor, you assume members-only congregation. He never makes you visible, never acknowledges that you came from afar, paid good money to be in the house of Lord. Except you didn’t pay; the tourists behind you, chatting as if 200 whispers can’t be heard, did.
The choir makes a grand entrance. You forgive cliché and finally understand what angels sound like. Tears well up and go down your face. And those tourists, well, they herd out immediately after the concert, before their formal welcome: A sister speaks of being a visitor, a stranger, in God’s house. She shouts out at least seven countries represented this Sunday morning and welcomes them all, even though their representatives have already left. She closes with Hebrews 13:2, “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for some have entertained angels unawares.”
Momma says don’t knock blessing, can’t blame a church for knowing the same. And so you see. Yes. You see. More than a child of God, here to receive blessings from the word, you are a butt in a seat. You are a spectator. Or maybe you were just caught up, present with the wrong color of visitors. But never mind. You were entertained, and wasn’t that the point, or at least the church’s point?
Either way, part of you wants to come back next week, alone, see if you can slide into a pew on the first floor just to trick the man. The other part of you can’t help but wonder how much a group rate is at such an establishment. Too quickly, you hope the choir gets a cut of whatever is the tourists’ mighty dollar and you opt to leave early, knowing you can pray and praise well enough alone. Besides, it’s first Sunday, and you’d rather thank God for coffee than communion.
1 comment:
Sam, you are phenomenal,loved your blog.Nice meeting you.
Sophia.
Post a Comment