Reflections

John Korsmo: On visiting a religious event of a culture different from his own.

While I would not accurately be described as a religious man, I do have strong spiritual convictions. I take time to worship in my own way, preferring peace, serenity and solitude to being with a congregation. I have deep respect for other people’s beliefs and methods of practicing their personal religions just as I respect my own. I appreciate people who act on their faith and work towards their beliefs and spiritual goals regardless of whether or not I agree with them.

With this in mind, I will attempt to share with you some of what went on the day I visited ABC Ministry [names have been altered to respect anonymity]. Leaving for the sermon I knew little of what to expect. I was invited to attend this sermon from the Reverend, who I had the pleasure of working with on a violence prevention project aimed at engaging hard to reach youth. Following is an account of the day based on my emotions, biases, understandings, misunderstandings and as much truth as I can muster.

"Make it plain, Pastor!"

Encouraging, coaxing, pleading words from the mouth of the same well dressed man who would hours later be the first of many people to embrace me, welcoming me to his family.

I had not been to this service before. I had not been to any service for at least four years, with the occasional exception of a funeral or wedding. I was policing my feelings and reactions to the happenings of the day, reminding myself to “keep it real” “or to simply be myself. When I arrived at ABC Ministry I felt relaxed, comfortable and prepared for a new experience. Reverend James saw me coming from across the playground that was serving as a parking lot for the day. Meeting me halfway to the door, the Reverend only surprised me a little with his warm welcoming embrace.

"Brother, John, praise be to God."

Not knowing how to respond I simply said, “It’s good to see you.” and we walked together into the building where I sat down in one of the folding chairs that had been lined up in rows.

The ministry had been started several years prior by Reverend James as an outreach center for social outcasts and deviants. It was a venue for saving the spirits, souls and lives of the downtrodden. Drug fiends, prostitutes, hoodlums and thugs were Reverend James” congregation of choice. He had explained to me earlier in the week that his personal belief is directly in line with his professed savior, Jesus Christ, in that if he is to truly do good it is of utmost importance to reach those who need to feel the hand of God the most.

The congregation on the day of my visit was made up of members who had been “saved” by God through the hands of Reverend James after hearing of his healing words on the streets. Reverend James had explained to me, “word of mouth is the way to bring in those who want to be here. If somebody hears from someone they trust that this is the place to be, then this is where they will be.” All told, there were forty people who would make it in that day. Eighty hands and eighty feet working together to create a thunderous roar, letting Jesus know where they were and why they were there.

Having arrived about five minutes prior to the listed start time for the sermon, I was the second person to come through the door. As people filed in over the next twenty-five minutes only the first eight or ten people who made their way directly to me with an outreached welcoming hand surprised me. The following dozen or so that introduced themselves before the sermon didn’t surprise me at all.

"Hello!" Praise God – it’s so nice to have you – praise God.

Hallelujah, I’m so happy to see you.

All praise be to God – hallelujah – I can’t tell you how wonderful – praise God – it is to have you.

I'll pray for you and hope you enjoy yourself, praise Him. God is with you."

A typical greeting at ABC Ministry.

The nine o clock service started at about 9:30 with melodic hymns from the portable stereo that had been set up just moments before. The stereo served merely as segue to a truly talented young woman who sang relentlessly for the next twenty-minutes. Her voice still rings clear and strong as I remember her bringing the congregation to an altogether different and freer state of being. She stood in front of the twenty-inch portable fans that were struggling to keep the room under eighty-degrees. Her dress whipped about, slapping against her legs as she provided us with a chorus equal to any I had ever paid money to hear.

It was not until a particularly powerful piece that I realized that I was clapping my hands and tamping my foot in tune with the tambourines that people seemed to have produced from thin air. I thought to myself that what I was experiencing at that moment wasn’t anything short of a celebration “certainly not what would ever immediately come to mind when I think of going to church. For twenty-minutes, while she sang I thought I could understand why the others were there. I could understand people wanting to take three or four hours out of their Sunday to come together and sing and dance. Had service ended simultaneously with the tremble of the last tambourine I would have left wanting more. But it didn’t “and neither did I.

There was no announcement that the sermon was about to really begin, no changing of the guard, no entr–acte between performer and prophet. I was mildly surprised to realize that Reverend James had already begun to speak. The first words from the reverend were inaudible as people were still singing, clapping and shouting their gratitude and praise for the heartfelt hymns ““Halleluuujaahh!”, “Yes, Jeeezuss!”, “Praise Lord!” – not really spoken, but drawn out, almost in song. These and many words and expressions like them were reverberating from every surface of the room. Calls to God were bouncing off the walls, echoing in fans and ringing in my ears. I started to feel anxious as everyone began chanting and vocalizing. The simultaneous spontaneity of it all caught me off-guard and I looked around, feeling as though I had missed my queue in an unfamiliar play.

The ranting and rejoicing came to a sudden halt as Reverend James' voice rose above the rest, bringing attention to his intense pacing at the front of the room. The sermon itself was entertaining and thought provoking. The topic of the day was letting go of the past, forgiving ones' self for past sins, realizing that everyone is responsible for themselves and finally giving one’s life over to God. The reverend preached with a flair that demanded attention and he dealt out a message no one could ignore.

"It’s time to look at yourself in the mirror.
No, not to pretty yourself up and say, “Oh, look how pretty I am",
but to take a good long look in there. See yourself!
Yes, I can sure enough clean myself up. Put on this suit.
Come up here lookin” all good. Sister James and I can come in here
smilin” n” playin” n” puttin” on airs. Make you want to come on home with us!
"Lord, look at those two!” Praise God! But you sure enough don’t see us at home!
I’m sure not goin” to let you see my ugly side!"

The words from the reverend that were accompanied with an energetic pantomime and intermittent emphatic call-backs from the congregation. The reverend's veins were pulsing on his neck, his temples were throbbing, sweat beading on his neck and brow, his glasses sliding up and down the bridge of his nose with each bob of his head. He emphasized his words with an aerobic display of energy, utilizing every square foot of the floor “pacing, jumping, sprinting and lunging, He frequently paused only long enough to let out an excruciating “Praise God!” with his eyes squeezed shut and every muscle in his face exercised. He captured the congregation. The men, women, children and I were all feeling his rhythm. His strong, loud voice rang clear above the not-so-distant sound of traffic and honking horns outside, the rattling and humming of the old overtaxed fans and even the congregation as they expressed their understanding and delight with continuous “mmhmm's” and other guttural sounds and sighs mixed with shouts of encouragement and echoing of full verbatim sentences.

Reverend James not only preached to us that day “he performed. He entertained us with his message, acting out his own fears of people getting to know him for who he truly is. Dramatizing his own opening of closet doors, his own freeing of secret and sacred skeletons.

"Good Lord! Don’t make me open up this door! I just put a double padlock on it.” As he was speaking, he was bracing himself against an imaginary door, keeping it closed with all his mighte, clamping an invisible padlock on the frame. “I just nailed it shut! I just covered it up with a big old painting of Jesus!”

He was nailing the door shut, admiring a hypocritical painting of Jesus hiding his closet door. He was frozen in front of us in a dramatic pose, with his hands and body and head pressed against an imaginary door, screaming to Jesus not to remove the skeletons from the closet, fighting the will of God until the roaring of the congregation reminded him that they and Jesus were on his side, that they, too were ready to accept those skeletons, that they, too were ready to set their own skeletons free.

I scouted the rest of the congregation, checking the response of the rest of the people in the room and was relieved to realize I wasn’t the only one laughing. We all seemed to be appreciating and understanding this performance. The sight of this thin, sweating, panting, passionate preacher pushing against a door that was not there, protecting his skeletons with every bit of his strength was something to behold. He really did make it plain.

While discussing the release of our skeletons, the reverend placed much emphasis on the family unit, particularly on children. Emphasis was on facing old secrets from the closet. “It’s ok that I’m sexually abusing my children because that’s all I know. I was abused, so that’s all I know. It’s ok for me to do it because it was done to me “

He was asking us all to open ourselves up, to open our closet doors, to release our skeletons. Asking us to free ourselves of all the unnecessary burden of trying to protect and hide our secrets. Coupled with the emotion of the crowd and his dramatic affect, it became an increasingly powerful message. People around the room were beginning to “fall out” “touched by God through the coaxing of Reverend James. Several people were shouting out, rejoicing, flailing about, and relinquishing themselves of their skeletons, opening closet doors, praising God and calling for Jesus. It was a true spectacle for me to witness and be a part of. Though I did not feel myself being moved by a divine spirit, I cannot deny that many of the people around me that day would say otherwise.

"Yasha, omwo, allamashatty ahsahd, yip ach asha.
Oyo, ralli ampadre osho. Halleluuujah!"

Sounds from a member of the congregation speaking in “tongue" with someone or something I could not comprehend.

As I watched the antics of the congregation, with women and men crying out, weeping on their hands and knees I wondered what was going through the minds of the children in the room. I inspected one young boy who was kneeling on his folding chair, facing backward in the seat, sucking on the back of the chair, watching the yellow haired woman behind him, whose braids were as wide as his arms, with her outreached healing hand placed on his father’s head. His father was in turn limply flailing and shouting out inaudible sounds that blended with others in the congregation. The boy’s attention was briefly drawn to a woman seated two chairs from me who was weeping and rocking back and forth in her creaking chair.

Even more powerful was the sight of two boys in the front row, sitting on either side of their father, who was sprawled out on the floor, sobbing with tears streaming down his face. He had finally collapsed after spending the last two and a half hours kneeling on the floor with his arms outstretched to their fullest length as if offering himself to God. I later imagined holding my own arms out at full length for two hours. I don’t think I could do it.

The man's sweat and tears blended together on his face and neck. The two boys took turns rubbing his back, giving each other a periodic glance, nodding their heads all the while. I was lost in this moment, observing the others around me and missed any announcement or signal that the service had ended. I simply realized that people were moving out of their chairs and embracing each other and saying farewells. The eyes of the man from the front row were still damp when he brought his two sons over to me. I was humbled as he embraced me, still breathing hard and told me he had prayed for me.

Reverend James and most of his congregation graciously embraced me and wished me well as we all left the damp, warm room. My head was buzzing as I headed for my car “with the echoing sounds and thoughts of people’s prayers, the rattling of the fans the melody of the boom box from the side of the room, the scraping of folding chairs as they were being broken down, the high notes from the girl who had sang for us, the energy and spirit of the morning. Although I have not chosen to call this ministry mine, I have a deeper respect for those who do.

“Thank you.”

My naive answer to the reverend's parting statement,

"I'll pray for you"