Despite having grown up in a town that was around 40% African-American, I had never gone to an African-American church until I went to Zion Grove Baptist Church in Chicago's South Side. The service was much less liturgical than I was used to. It began with announcements, then a prayer. The prayer was very long, and far more enthusiastic than anything heard in my (white) Presbyterian and non-denominational circles. Then there were more announcements, and then a long sermon. The sermon vaguely had to do with John 3:1-6, but it was more of an extended harangue about various topics. The main gist of the sermon was that being born again requires a change of actions, and that God's blessings are contingent on our obedience. A lot of topics were introduced. The rhetorical style was a lot more stream-of-consciousness than the sermons I am used to--no three-points and a conclusion here. It was probably the funniest sermon I ever heard, with the pastor using silly voices for objections to his argument. After the sermon, there was the collection, and then communion. Then there was another song and a benediction that threatened to turn into another sermon, but thankfully did not.
One thing that I found appealing about the service was the level of enthusiasm. Many of the people there waved their hands and shouted. I am a Presbyterian. We wave our hands and shout...when we're telling someone why their soteriology is wrong (I kid). The prayer at the beginning was especially enthusiastic, as the deaconess praying gave thanks for the many blessings in the life of the congregation. There was a very incarnational aspect to the service, as the deaconess and the pastor often gave thanks for tangible blessings or focused on concrete ways to live the Christian life ("Put away your reefer! Put away your booze! Stop beatin' on your kids and cussin' at 'em!"). The pastor was also 100% committed to the Christian faith. He pointed out how if you were a member of another faith, the people in that faith would disciple you and expect you to live according to certain rules, but Christians, on the other hand, tend to have lower expectations. His characterizations of other religions would probably not pass muster with Rich Mouw, but it was clear that he believed that Christianity was the only hope. He brought up Pascal's idea that there is something wrong with the fact that most people can't sit still in a room for an hour, even though I doubt he had ever read Pascal. Great minds do think alike.
I was bothered the pastor's constant second-person references whenever he was talking about sin: "You need to stop havin' sex with everyone," "You need to stop drinkin'," "You need to get rid of the bitterness in your heart." Any time there was an "I," it was usually "I'm not doing [such bad thing], neither should you." Although I appreciated his emphasis on convicting the congregation of their sin, I was bothered by the subtle way that he seemed to justify his own actions in the process. I was bothered when the pastor, perhaps prophetically aware of my previous visit to Bethany Chapel, called out people who were perenially late to church. I was bothered by the way that there seemed to be an "us-vs.-them" attitude taken towards "sinners." The pastor made it seem like if you've committed any sin, then you're out of the church and you're one of the bad guys. I went through a long period of doubt and anger towards God, but I believe that I was still in some way a Christian during that period. I've realized that this tends to be a pattern in lower-income churches, black and white. I think it may be that the consequences of sinful behavior are more evident in poor communities without the twin safety nets of education and money. It's easier to feel good about your beatnik intellectual gay friend who smokes weed and doesn't get a job than it is about an unwed mother who smokes weed and doesn't get a job, especially if you share a similar cultural background with your beatnik friend (i.e. you're both white).
And, let's face it, I felt uncomfortable being the only white person there. I didn't feel as uncomfortable as I I thought I would. I would have felt more comfortable if I had been in a black church in my hometown. I would have felt more comfortable if I had known someone there. I feel uncomfortable writing this essay now, afraid that I've said something that's not kosher.
This church visit brought to mind church unity. I was an outsider here, but there was a sense in which I was "part of the family" because I was a Christian. The congregation and I spoke the same theological language, just with different accents. We all took communion together (it was communion Sunday). Despite all of the differences, we were still reading from the same Bible and worshiping the same God. I was struck by the fact that when the deaconess prayed for people who were struggling, she was praying for my friends who are struggling, even though she didn't know it. Back in the 1960s, I could have never visited this church. Now, I may have raised a few eyebrows, but not much more. I don't think I could be a member at an all-black church. I would feel too much like a spectator or an anthropologist. I don't think most of the people at this church would be able to attend the churches that I have regularly attended. But it was good to go to another church to remind myself of the fact that I am united to these people by the deepest of ties, even if the way I express my religion is very different.
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