church

I've been going to church at the Methodist church up the street from where I live. I've been wanting to get out and explore other churches, but I really like this one and it makes it hard to go anywhere else.

First Grace is a combination of two Methodist churches in the Mid-City neighborhood. One of them was a primarily black church, and the other a primarily white church. With the storm severely damaging both buildings and many members leaving the city, the two churches merged a year ago. In the afternoons, after the service in English, there is a Spanish service, as well. The head pastor is white, the associate pastor is black and female, and the third pastor is Latino. This was such a big event that the Times-Picayune, the New Orleans newspaper, published an article on the merge.

The building itself took on five feet of water during the storm, and the recovery process is slow, but sure. The altar steps are made of fresh new wood, but there is chipped paint on the pillars. The altar is small. They cover it with cloth, but underneath, I know that it is worn and roughly made. Every Sunday there is a new addition of some sort to the church. Now there are plants on the balcony, and a small fountain up front. There are cookies and punch afterwards, and sometimes there are meals served. A community garden grows out back, and the kids play on a on a new looking playground.

A few Sundays ago, the Latino pastor gave a sermon on diversity. He talked about the tower of Babel and how it separated people. Then he talked about how in the Book of Revelations, the body of Christ is a jumbled mess of diversity, and that the kingdom is not here yet if we are still so separated by color. There is much work to be done, he said. I thought it was a beautiful vision, and so truthful. He was never critical, just simply stating where we are and where we, as Christians, need to be.

I love to sit silently during worship and watch the people, especially during the passing of the peace. I've never seen more genuine or more beautiful people than during church. Handshakes, blessings, and even hugs from strangers speak from heart to heart. Most of the time I speak to the few people I know, but there is always a smothering hug from a stranger. There's a healing power in each hug; there is more peace in those hugs than in the words alone. I dread those chaotic moments when the congregation hugs and blesses each other, and yet it keeps pulling me back. If it weren't for those Sunday peace hugs, I would be untouched every other day.

There is one man, Hosey, who I love to watch. He is the Spirit in the flesh, I'm sure of it. His face literally glows with love every Sunday from his pew. My eyes are drawn to him and to the aura that surrounds him. He's medium height, very pear-shaped, and balding. He is aging, probably in his thirties, which is still young, but Hosey is very clearly has Down Syndrome. This adds to his charm, to his beauty. I like best to watch him when the choir sings. Hosey always stands to sway and clap with the choir. Sometimes he sings. His big back side swings from side to side and his face is pure and full of joy. And during the passing of the peace, he hugs his friends with the fiercest love.

Every Sunday, Pastor Shawn closes the sermon by inviting the congregation to become members of the church. It seems to me as a cross between an altar call and the membership profession that I grew up with. I hate the moment when he asks, but every time, someone leaves there seat and joins the pastor as a new member of the church. This Sunday, Hosey joined the congregation as a new member. He brought tears to everyone's when he looked at the church and said, "I love this church, and I love all of you."

This Sunday I sat behind a small old man that I noticed from the very first Sunday. He walks with a cane, and he sits next to a very stunning older Creole woman. His fine hair is cropped close to his head, and there are even wrinkles on his nearly bald head. He looks like a very delicious black peach. I watched him pray yesterday, and I could hardly keep myself from crying. I could see the prayer moving through his old, tired body, from his downward looking eyes, from his shoulders, from his outstretched arms. I wish I could paint a picture for you, but you can't paint what is pure. You'll see it for yourself someday, and you'll know how I felt about this man. You'll feel that same sense of love. You'll want to fall to your knees. You'll know when it happens to you.