Answers, and More Questions
Beads of sweat rolled down my neck and it wasn't from the heat. I sat on the back wooden pew inside the Upper Room Church of God in Christ, wondering if I should have attended church with my teammates.
I had known Peter, Javier, Amber and the other fellows for only two days, but I knew we were different. Two days, and I was already tuning out the profanity and nursing my glasses of ice water instead of Miller Lites and piña coladas. In a place like this, I wondered what else my fellows would find out about me.
I'm not sure about this, I thought, as I watched 24-year-old Shameika Huff urging the members to get their praise on.
"I don't know what you come to do," she chanted as the congregation echoed her. "I'm gonna clap my hands."
"My hands!"
"I'm gonna stomp my feet."
"My feet!"
A few members broke out their tambourines and slapped them as Pastor Eugene Huff rocked back and forth, shouting, "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" His voice was loud and coarse, like a rake over gravel.
My teammates' eyes were fixed upon the congregants in curiosity and amusement, while I studied the church's makeup, trying to gauge its level of traditionalism.
Ah man, this church is from the Stone Age, I thought.
The sanctuary was modestly adorned with flowers and picture frames, two containing depictions of the Lord's Supper. Fans were placed all over to combat the heat. Gray folding chairs made up for the lack of church pews, and an ivory Mapex drum set and tambourines provided the only musical accompaniment to the songs.
At times it was difficult to understand the speakers. Verbs slipped from sentences; men and women became mens and womens. The singers made up for their lack of vocal harmony by singing loud and with passion.
“What’s His name?”
“Jee-sus!
“What’s His name?”
“Jee-sus!”
I was unimpressed and that made me nervous, because I assumed my teammates would view that church’s particular teachings, worship style and traditions as representative of my own.
Please don't preach on gays, I prayed silently. Please don't talk about sex or the club or drinking. Please don't offend my friends. The whole service, I feared that the minister would pick the most controversial topics to preach on.
But she didn't, and I was relieved.
Or was I?
I left service that day wondering what would have happened if those topics had been addressed. Could I tell my gay peers that I thought their lifestyles were immoral? Should I tell others about my problems with drinking?
The journalist in me forced me to evaluate my beliefs, which were exposed by the church’s simplicity and candidness. At home, my church swallowed any skepticism with its large sanctuary and expensive equipment. At home, my Christian friends and I coated our discussions with religious jargon and coded language.
Here, I realized my convictions couldn't be dressed up in expensive pew cushions, fancy rhetoric or elaborate ritual. They were not more authoritative when the pastors who teach them drive a Mercedes or less when the lobbyists who hate them have more political power. They must stand alone, in their rawness, even if they offend.
Was I ready to stand for that rawness? I wasn’t sure.
Just the night before, I was getting to know my fellows over Papa John’s pizza and beer, slowly letting down my guard as I realized people could drink and not get drunk. In Cristi’s apartment, Aerosmith streamed from ear to ear as we chatted about favorite songs, Salvador Dali paintings and our goals for the next six weeks.
Close to midnight we splashed around in the surf on Treasure Island beach and kicked back on lounge chairs as we discussed our views on religion and politics. There I found myself more interested in the stories of each student than in reminding them that I was a Christian, doggonit, and they had better make sure they didn’t offend me.
Throughout the program, I would struggle with this tension between a faith that has given me all the answers and a profession that examines and questions those answers.
The stakes are quite high, because every time I try to see life through someone else’s eyes, I risk being courted by doubt and self-reflection.
My Christian friends would decry my double-mindedness. My journalism peers would celebrate my open-mindedness.
But for me, it’s the difference between covering a death metal concert or gay pride event because I have to and covering it because I want to. To understand and be enlightened by the multidimensional richness of the human experience -- that is my goal.
Even the Upper Room, where the members greeted us with wide smiles and Juicy Fruit chewing gum, possessed a richness that couldn’t be overshadowed by its modest appearance. Their story was about celebrating what they did have, not what they didn’t.
“I come to give Him the praise.”
“The praise!”
“Did you come to give Him the praise?”
“The praise!”
Still, was I ready to stand for that rawness? Or would I just skirt around the red flags so my differences were less apparent and my ability to report fairly wasn’t second-guessed?
These questions have yet to be answered.
