Lift Every Voice and Sing (No, seriously...)

So I paid a visit to a church over on the other side of the river this past Sunday, because my friend had recently been named priest-in-charge, and I wanted to catch up with her and see how she was doing. So I rolled into St. Bartholemew's at 10:30am, ready for a good sermon (her sermons are always amazing) and some good company.

What I did not know about St. Bart's- and there is no reason that I should, as it does not matter, in the end- is that it is a traditionally African-American parish. Black parishes are few and far between in the Episcopal Church, and this one, much like many others is largely Afro-Caribbean in character. The Episcopal Church is, and always has been, a predominantly white denomination. Look up "WASP" in the dictionary, and it will read "see also: Episcopalian." All of this is to say that I was suddenly acutely aware of the color of my skin, a characteristic that I don't spend too much time thinking about on a day-to-day basis. I walked into the nave, and immediately realized that I was the only white person around. Suddenly, I was the minority. I was different. I stuck out like a sore thumb. As my friend later told me, I was "the strange white person in the back of the church."

It is a very unsettling feeling, to know that everyone knows you somehow don't fit in. To know that everyone can tell just by looking that you're "not from around here." It's very distracting. Particularly when you've been preparing yourself to worship. Suddenly, your motive for showing up to church that day comes into question, if only in your own mind. Would they think I was just there to see the "local color" (no racially-charged pun intended)? Would they wonder why I didn't turn around and walk out the door when I saw I didn't belong? Would they even want to engage with me at all? This is not the thought process you want to have to go through before church on Sunday.

But then, the most unexpected thing- and yet the very thing I should have expected- happened. I was welcomed. With open arms (literally; I got a couple of hugs). Everyone wanted to know my name. They made me stand up and introduce myself as a first-time visitor during the notices. "Chris, do you want to stand up and introduce yourself?" And it didn't feel awkward at all. Even when they clapped for me as I took my seat again. They filled my hands with cookies and coffee in the parish hall. I left that one church service knowing the first names of more people than I probably know at my current parish of three years (at least per capita).

And I think to myself: "That's how church should be." That's how life should be. Sometimes I think that if I ever make it to heaven, it will be mostly black people. (That's not just Liberation Theology talking, either.) Because, at the very least, I think God would rather surround Godself with people that get excited about faith and love one another without shame. People that sing at the top of their lungs, rather than wait for a cue from the choir. As much as I love my parish (and I do; they have been very good to me), I would trade in a heartbeat the classically trained, professional choir for a small group of saints belting out "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" from Lift Every Voice and Sing II (the fact that we have to have a completely separate "African-American Hymnal" is a topic for another time).

Lift every voice and sing,
'Til earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty