Post #1 (2012)- "Stranger in a Strange Land"

So I was raised Catholic. That means that as a child, in accordance with thousands of years of (stifling) (soul-stultifying) hierarchical tradition, church--to me-- meant sitting quietly in an uncomfortable wooden pew for an hour every Sunday morning, pondering things like what new GI Joe accessory I could purchase to affix to my Cobra Command Station, or why those kids were so intent on denying that Lucky Charms rabbit just a little bit of simple pleasure, while the monsignor, bedecked in his flowing violet cape layered over the classic (as classic as a red Mustang Convertible or floppy-eared Basset), princely ol’ black shirt and white collar, droned on gravely about my sins and Christ’s magic powers and whatnot. I do remember some candles burning and a bell ringing. Also we would kneel for like 15 minutes towards the end. Finally (mercifully), we’d go eat the wafer, hear the church bulletin highlighting the weeks’ potlucks and bake sales, the holy “word of the day”, and at last be dismissed, to enjoy the rest of Sunday afternoon with family get-together Sunday supper, and maybe a wiffle ball game in grandma’s backyard.  

So church was boring to me. Obligatory. Not exactly spiritually uplifting.

And then, years later, as a grown-up boy, an Italian-Irish Catholic WHITE boy, with a wife, a career, and an embedded set of religion/ church service presumptions,  I went to a church service of a different sort. Still Christian-- but that’s like saying a cat and a leopard are  both felines--  it was a rural Baptist church, entirely (not largely, not mostly, but ENTIRELY) congregated by black people—and thus we were the ONLY whities that Sunday (or any Sunday, I would imagine) soaking up The Good News. You see, my wife’s co-worker, an African-American gentleman, was the pastor of the church, and he had invited us out to attend their “Friends and Family” day. We graciously accepted, assuming that it would be a predominantly back congregation, and something a little different than our religious experiences; we could not, however, anticipate the absolute culture shock we would undergo, as people raised under the influence of the “stuffy white church” paradigm.

And indeed what a THRILL it was to see people embracing their faith with gusto, celebrating the joy of their worship, singing, dancing (and I mean SINGING AND DANCING—mouths agape, arms akimbo, rocking the little churchhouse like a Springsteen concert (and yes, I know how white that reference is!) ), responding to the preacher’s homily in the time-honored, populist  call-and-respond tradition (“THASS RAIGHT”, “PRAYYYSE BE”, “JEEEESSUS” ), up on their feet, stompin’, clappin’, ENRAPTURED by the Word. And the outfits! From my Catholic childhood, I remember being stuffed by my mother into a pair of dress pants and a button-up shirt (and if she could pin me down long enough, a pair of penny loafers in lieu of the Nike Airs) right before mass, but these folks at the Baptist church put the three-squared into the phrase “Dressed to the Nines”: men in three-piece suits, woman in wedding-formal gowns, make-up and jewelry as immaculate as a Costume Ball. And the HATS! Lawdy, the hats! Never mind you the traps of stereotyping, let it be known that old black ladies genuinely know how to sport those elaborate church hats! Colors, shapes, patterns that’d make Salvador Dali drool. Finally, lest we not mention the full devotion of worship on this day, there was the length of the service. An hour passes—six or seven songs, two or three pastors speaking—and we’re still going strong. Two hours pass—the collection basket has been around at least three times, the elderly folks have gotten up to use the john once or twice—and we’re still going strong. Two hours and forty minutes—and now we’re winding down,  having experienced a whirlwind of worship and devotion, expounded energy akin to running a marathon.  My wife and I say our farewells to the pastor, to our welcoming seatmates and spiritual well-wishers, having just stood and smiled awkwardly (and maybe once in a while putting our hands together out of deference to the music)  for close to three hours, sticking out like a sore thumb—no, more like a sore elephant tusk—and, despite the awkwardness of it all, absolutely inspired, enthralled, made better by the experience. The phrases “cultural exchange” and “melting pot” certainly get overplayed in our country, our increasingly globalized modern world, but without a doubt, this experience taught me that it is VITAL to branch out of your comfort zone once in awhile, to discover that there are worlds absolutely foreign and exotic and enriching just a few steps, and a knock at the door, away from our prescribed, comfortable, stifling routes.

I thought about this as my wife and I departed that humble black country church on this Sunday morning, and then I realized as we pulled away that the congregants were just breaking for lunch, on the picnic benches outside, before returning into the church for another three hours of Worship.