I miss the Amen Corner
I miss the feeling of being on the altar; in the church where I first saw the light, but because they’ve freed me: my being is now the altar.
Hello, beloveds! I hope you enjoy this excerpt from my upcoming essay collection. I started this reflection last year, in the midst of the pandemic, processing through my own identity, faith, connection to the divine. It took me all this time to find the write sentences to convey my meditation. I do hope you’d enjoy and let me know your thoughts.
“And have put on
The new shelf, which
Is being renewed in
Knowledge after the
Image of its creator”
- Colossians 3:10
I.
I miss church. I miss walking up to the sanctuary doors, patiently waiting for an usher to admit us into its warm embrace. We were usually late, arriving after processionals and early scripture readings, but we were there before announcements, offering, and of course, the sermon. Church— the act of going, communing, fellowshipping— put me in a trance every week. There was, during my childhood, moments when God seemed to be the only one listening to my heart cry. Church, not the building or the people, really, but the altar— the perfect placement of decoration, as if the almighty was to make a flesh-bound appearance, filled a deep void in my child-heart. Remembering everything, and just the glimpses, I hope to articulate how the fire shot up in my bones.
Memories of Sunday mornings of childhood, cling to the deepest parts of myself. They were ordinary and usual; Black folks around the country— world, even— have a similar ritual, adhering to their own tradition. Sitting here, after nearly two years inside a pandemic, witnessing this empire, in which I was born, endure its crumble, the churches teachings hold me close. These mornings are filled with memories I long to relive. These days, my favorite of ordinary ones, began around 9am, with smells of medium roast coffee filling the house, bird chirps heralding a new day, Niagara Falls air cooled and caressed, riding the breeze into whichever room I arose in. The kitchen radio provided our home with early morning worship; at this moment I hear: Tamela Mann’s “Best Days” album, which played non-stop in my nanas house.
“Good Morning Bud— let’s get up and get a move on it,” Ma would call out after already exiting the room, headed back to the kitchen, or basement to finish prepping her get-up. As she showered, I made breakfast, the same I still have most mornings: two eggs, grits, three pieces of bacon, toast with strawberry jelly, coffee, and water, or maybe Orange Juice. I ate and communed; hummed hymns and embraced all the glory sitting on Church Ave. In these memories, my papa is still alive. He joined me at the kitchen table, where we talked about everything, and nothing, each moment drowned in love. I stayed at my nana’s many Saturdays, in preparation for Sunday mornings, my dad would stop by to make sure all was well; it always was, or at least it seemed to be.
The ringing clock, which in years since has lost its sound, told us the hour was now ten, almost time to go, Church was starting. It didn’t take long to get dressed by the time my belt buckled, pocket filled with a few dollars for offering, nana called for my assistance: to buckle her heels. Before she started oxygen, getting out the house was a little quicker, less things to worry on, carry out. During winters, papa, who rarely attended service— for reasons I still haven’t investigated, though, I have a few guesses— warmed the black GM before we got outside.
Our drives were so intimate and loving and though I can’t cling to words we said during these rides, each time we took off, headed to worship, I felt closer to my nana. One morning when we pulled out the back gate, turning out of the alleyway and onto 37th street, Slow Motion played on the car radio. I rapped along; my young heart embraced lyrics I didn’t understand, but it felt good. I think I got a few words out before Ma turned off the radio— or changed the station, I do not recall— declaring: “we going to church, you gotta prepare yourself.” This was my first-time learning: if one goes where God is, one must prepare.
II.
After riding down Hyde Park Avenue, making a few left and right turns, we arrive at St. Johns African Methodist Episcopal Church on Garden Avenue. It is a modest white brick building with a red roof. On “good” Sundays, the parking lot overflowed, forcing folx to park all kinds of ‘illegally.’ Most times we were late, all the time we were expectant. There, in our church, was always a heavy spirit of expectation, but I suppose that is what every place where God dwells should feel like. One wants to feel like one’s life has been made over. There truly is something spectacular about the saint’s devotion to He who gives and sustains life; one of the most beautiful sights to behold. Many a people fell beneath the glory, there in that modest church, connected to a deep tradition of belief. We’ve made it to the sanctuary, the doors are shut, we press our ears to hear where service lay beyond the door; after a slight knock, and short wait, the usher let us in.
Ma would guide us to our pew. For long as I can remember we— my nana, her sisters, me, and my cousins— sat on the same few pews on the left side. Passing more family and kin, hugging, waving, and smiling we made our way up the aisle, stopping midway. We sat close enough to get to altar call with haste; away enough that our pastor couldn’t make our nana’s facial expressions. These sisters—my nana, and aunts—could alter service with a perching of their lips, just like their mom, my granny. I sat closest to the aisle just in case someone near me didn’t want to make a walk around come offering. Across from me, in the middle pews, sat our ladies in white, our church mothers. There, also, was Godmother, who wasn’t my own, but was my uncles and fathers; so, she was mine, too. Godmother, still to this day, although it’s been many days, always made sure I had change for the collection plate. “Godmother, can you break this 20?” Sometimes a simple connection of our eyes and point to the bill to be broken, was all the language needed.
Behind Godmother sits two of her daughters— our very own Amen corner— who served as indicator that Spirit entered the sanctuary; it seemed they knew before anyone else. A few rows back, past Godmother and her blessed daughters, sat a multitude of people, from blood cousins and church cousins; you know, those youngins who, like a herd of sheep, were raised together, inside the sanctuary and fellowship hall. I didn’t get along with them all, not in a bad way, though, but in a “you know, like I know, I am different.”
On the opposite side of the church sits a few more people— some vacation bible schoolteachers, sprinkled in are a few of my nana’s best friends, and one of my first babysitters, who led church announcements. Before we reached offering, came announcements: readings of the happenings, call for birthdays and anniversaries, the introduction of visitors. After I moved to Texas my nana wanted me to rise and proclaim my return, but I never left, and I surely wasn’t a visitor.
One Sunday, I wish I remembered more about the date, season, more of the details, but I will never forget this woman, who proclaimed her return home. I noticed her early when we first made it to our pew, during the first around-the-church eye scan, where you send around soft smiles and two finger waves to people who you haven’t seen in only a week but acts as if it’s been ten years. She was tall, with platinum blonde hair, and those only seen on TV heavily detailed nails. There was a heart yearning to know this woman; like the ghost Beloved, who studied her mother, Sethe, with uncompromising attention. Thinking now of these feelings, I don’t share another moment I’ve felt this way. She sat with her husband, of whom, I remember nothing, not even the color of his clothes.
She hadn’t opened her mouth, and everyone already released a deep love, a long-awaited sigh of relief at the welcome home. This lady-in-red, who wasn’t a visitor at all, rolled from her tongue: “I’ve been gone a long time, but I’m home.” A wave a glory, glories, hallelujahs, and praise God’s rode over the congregation. I remember smiles and jubilation; someone’s baby, and in our church, this meant everyone’s baby, God’s beloved, returned home. I couldn’t wait for offering because I would have a chance to move right pass the lady-in-red; for some reason, I just had to be near, like moths to bright, hot flames, I drew nearer.
III.
Many times, due to decreased turn-out down throughout these years, we rarely had a drummer, organist, and pianists all at the same time. This paid us no-mind, we come from a tradition of store-front worshipers, descendants of the enslaved who used hums and stomps to glorify the Lord. Congregation songs feel warmer, required commitment; they are soothing meditation I didn’t full appreciate, or maybe I did, just without language to describe the warmth.
White gloved ushers and the finance department— one, or two people who counted our money— made their way toward the pulpit. My cousins who filled the choir stands— young and old, new and wise revival— began to yum; soft at first, growing in power and depth as each line passed, building the atmosphere for our cheerful giving. Before our side was asked to stand and an usher started moving from back to front, releasing us from pews, hums turned to verse.
You can’t beat Gods giving, no matter how you try
And just as sure as you are living
And the lord is in heaven on high
The more you give, the more he give you
But keep on giving because it’s really true
That you can beat Gods giving, no matter how you try.
I had already collected offers of those around who weren’t going to make the journey round. When those white gloves released our row, walking in front of my nana, with #41 labeled envelopes in hand, I made it toward the altar. Hugging, smiling, accepting sloppy, red-lipped kisses from those church women who keep the world spinning; at that the time, they were annoying, now I miss the stamps of love they left on my cheek.
The lady-in-red sat on the right side, toward the middle, gliding through the aisle, I was awed. I walked past the pew where she sat— she was even more breathtaking, not in a conventional sense, but she wore her story on her face. Her hands had fought for life at some point; her eyes were once empty, void of love, but the sparkle had crept back in. Ten seconds. That is all it took to read the preface to the lady-in-red’s story. Nana stayed with her longer, smiling and hugging, remembering, and distancing— embracing those war stories. Nana seemed relieved to touch her, as if, she thought at one time, she would never have the opportunity again.
We made it around, joining the choir, building up power: “you can’t beat God’s giving, no matter how you try.” When all was deposited into our section of heaven-on-earth, ushers raised the baskets toward heaven; pastor prayed over our offering, declaring increase in our harvest, fruitfulness in baroness, a ten-fold return.
IV.
I don’t remember who our pastor was, during the season I met the lady-in-red, or what they preached, but it couldn’t have been terrible, as I have no memories of talking about it afterward. It must’ve had some power. Most times, in those years of my adolescence, I sat in awe of our pastor and congregation; I craved, with a burning want, what it seemed they possessed: relationship with God. It was the powerful call and response, a conversation between all those present, in front of God, sometimes with it, but always with deep appreciation for what is to come. Preachers know when the people, their congregation, felt or didn’t; if God wasn’t in agreement, the people were first to tell. Whenever the Spirit lingers, it isn’t in the pulpit, I’ve found, but instead sits in the pews with the faithful.
When my aunt attended the same church, I remember sitting beside as the Holy Spirit filled her up. I was astonished and jealous to witness her experience God; when she cried and danced, when ma rubbed her back, affirming the righteousness of the anointing, I hung my head. For all my love, in all those days of playing church, yearning for Sunday mornings, at that point, I’d never experienced God, not like that. My younger brother received the Holy Spirit at an early age, I found myself green then, too. When he accepted Christ, made public declaration of his desire to be made over, I awaited my own. The summer Their fresh wind moved over me, I was just entering high school, everyone was still alive, and I finally got my reason to live.
After pastor delivered the Word, they proceeded to the call of discipleship. Years before this moment, I watched two of my older— only by few years— cousins submit themselves before the altar; witnessing their devotion, the way the church surrounded them, the way Gospel filled through their nostrils, I craved it.
As my time came, a lump formed inside my throat like the one that swells when change sits heavy in the air; I felt a light touch on my arm, pulling me up, a tiny whisper said: “it’s time.” Our usual congregation hymn went:
We offer Christ to you,
All my brothers,
We offer Christ to you,
All my sisters.
He will give you brand new life,
So come.
That Sunday nana sat on the outside, so I had to push past her to get toward the altar. She touched my back, but my soul felt it first. At the altar, with my arms stretched out, I’d finally accepted Christ, the one I’d always pined after. Afterwards, as the tears still fell, I sat on the first pew on the left side. One of my aunts helped me fill out the new-member card; the Christ of my people, the one who held us close, whose Spirit shot up in bones, filling them with fire, was finally— as it’s always been— mine, too, forever. It wasn’t until writing here, over the last year, that I’ve realized why Jesus waited until that moment to call my name. See, a few short weeks later, my nana was having life-saving surgery, when she woke, her eldest son was murdered. As one life went on to glory, and eventually my papa too, I was filled with a new life.
Redemption, I quickly discovered, wasn’t a get out of life free card; rather, following Jesus, accepting the invitation of Holy Spirit, more times than not, was requisite to feeling the heaviest burdens. Only those who’ve felt the calvary cross, thorned crown, ridicule, and disapproval of community, can truly know what it feels like to embrace the savior of the world. I think, perhaps, when my family started to die, when my heart felt too burdened to live, I remembered salvation is promise, purpose, and protection. I had to prepare my soul, body and mind, to embrace a life filled not without suffering or heartache, but one where even in the presence of the worst, I’d be reminded of the omniscience of goodness. Surrounded in Their glory, even amid the worst storms— of terror and strife— is the reason to fall beneath His feet. I don’t want an easy life; I just want one worthy of living. With Christ, it all becomes worthy endeavor, creating a mercy seat with my existence for Their usage.
After pastor offered benediction and we sung doxology: “Praise Ye from whom all blessings flow,” we all made our way towards the back doors, to greet our pastorate. When we made it to those same double doors, we strolled late past, I remember our pastor saying. “Jake, I know you proud.” With a soft smile and glance over, she responded: “So, very.” I hadn’t really understood why church folx became ‘happy’ when souls came to Christ, but now, resting inside the truest freedom I’ve ever experienced, I get it. Soul saving, redeemed living, is enough to make anyone happy. Experiencing the glory of God in the earth, when it happens, is magnificent, but what a joy it will be when the sky cracks and the righteous ascend; what a day it will be, when we get to walk around heaven, signing and praising; it is surely something to be happy about.
V.
To the left of the doors, we usually arrived late through, is fellowship hall. Filled to the brim with memories of repast dinners, Vacation Bible School classes, and church programs, our fellowship hall is where I learned how to love, and exist, around God’s people. Most, if not all Sunday afternoons in fellowship hall included folx selling poundcakes and chicken dinners, people pouring red drink, flowing from one corner to the next, sitting with elders and family, basking in the residual glory left in the wake of the Word. Not only does one have to prepare to be in the presence of the Almighty but one most linger in it, dwell where the Spirit sits, absorbing into every pore the call and commandment. During commune and fellowship, God reveals who amongst His people— which, means all people, even the ones who don’t call His Son Lord of Lords—needs the actions of Their church. Those who words of glory and redemption— stories of deliverance and mercy, mean nothing without the show of its power.
On the Sunday I met the lady-in-red, we officially met inside fellowship hall. We stood in the center, almost in a circle; across from me was her husband, to my right was nana, across from her was lady-in-red. I stood awkwardly, uncomfortable being near someone who seemed both free and bound, who felt kin to me, but I knew nothing of her, or our kinship. They all talked and caught up; I stared. “Jake, who is this handsome young man?” “Oh, this is my grandson; Tez’s oldest.” There was more to our conversation, but alas, too much time is passed. Though, when I close my eyes, I can still see her staring at, no, through, to the depths of me, affirming our affinity. From her eyes, lady-in-red, transferred a hope into me, something I would bury for years. She planted in me, knowledge of the inheritance which she claimed and the one I would soon hold as my own, too.
Exiting church, was always the saddest parts of service, but doing it with Black folx of a certain age, is always, a feat. No one can be sure how long an exit will take; people holding on to the lingering glory, the peace and love-filled air, leaving meant entering a world where such glory was so few and far between. Children couldn’t wait in cars; too much time would pass and police, or nosey folx, would be too concerned. I dreaded the waiting, thought old folx talked too much, hovered around too long, but my God, do I understand how fulfilling it is to remain around the place where God dwells. If God shows up somewhere, anywhere, Their taste, smell, feelings of goodness, remains for much longer. Spirit stays to observe who held close its instruction, who allowed time-tested meditation to lift their hearts, plant their feet on sturdy ground. Spirit stays to remind: to forget the mighty, miraculous wonder that is God, is to forget the power in oneself; the loving bequeathed by the original breath into the universe. Forgetting the majesty of the God who redeems all, not for any other reason than they are Their beloved, is to forget our calling; to forget our purpose to love.
VI.
On our car rides home, ma and I recapped what happen or better said: who happened at service. During the trip back— a right onto Ontario then on Hyde Park Blvd— we just made it over the bridge, almost past the 7-11, the Dollar Tree in the rearview mirror, but not yet at the Old Police Station, when I finally worked the courage to ask: “who was that woman?” I vaguely remember nana providing her name, but I was most enchanted by the way she introduced parts of lady-in-reds story. I learned lady-in-red hadn’t always presented, or declared, herself a “woman”— though, to be extremely clear: whether she announced it or not, she has always been her. My nana told me short stories of folxs knowing lady-in-red was, in so many words, “different;” she spent time in her mother’s heels and dresses, which, in the minds of community told them everything they need, apparently. There was, at that moment, and in my current memories, so much love seeping through my nanas voice, as genuine as the hug she gave earlier. “God’s love is for everyone and it don’t matter who that everyone is,” replays in my mind almost every week; I don’t recall if these were my nanas words, or the spirits lingering presence, but something provided the assurance: God was always going to be in my midst.
What happened on that drive, between two of houses: one of God, another family, has led me down a freedom train never ending. Something about the fire shooting inside one’s bones, hearing the Spirit declare its love for all creation, changes the foundation on which one walks, alters the way one sees the trees and loves the caresses of windy breezes. God loves me, I thought; I’m somebody and God’s love is for everybody: God loves me. Whenever tribulation came, in all the years since, I’ve held to that which the lady-in-red lived, and my nana professed: God’s love is in everything. Though, in all this adoration one can never disconnect oneself from the crass ways of those who believe God can be constricted into simple ideas, or methods of control, using it to hurt, harm, neglect and cast away. It’s taken many years to understand why people like the lady-in-red leave and after a while, find their way back home, brining God and freedom along.
VII.
A few years later, on the day I was outed to my grandmother, my dad and I had a huge fight. My aunt took me to the mall to cool. We had just gotten to there when I finally let the crying stop, where she asked: “what do you think God feels about you being gay?” I remember my astonishment, though, I wasn’t surprised. My words didn’t fumble or waver, they were clear. I can’t recall the exact words, if I could go back, I’d make sure to say: “I don’t think this omniscient God, who created the universe, and the dwellers within, holds His creation against themselves.” I never once allowed anyone to weaponize Glory against me, but I was bewildered by her question. For I was there, when fire shot up in her bones; I saw the way the body bounced, tears flowed, lips quiver. I witnessed God in her, why couldn’t she witness it in me?
Over the years, however, I’ve gone from confusion to deep sadness, not solely for her, but for all those who refuse to understand the true power of God. How limiting to believe the God of our universe, where fused atoms become beings, is so punitive and spiteful, to hate the very breathe it bequeathed into our earth. I refuse to believe or concede to it.
If Jesus, or any connection to the Divine, doesn’t make one larger, freer, closer to the natural state of glory imbued through creation, then one shouldn’t desire it. If theology becomes more important than the justice-centered practice of being a believer, we should hasten another way. If religion prevents us from the same burning desire to reach mercy and glory, like the lady with the issue of blood, we should turn round. The Spirit should linger, stay from one thing to the next, like a John Coltrane cadence, remixed and turned for another, it should remind: the Divine was here.
If the God who created the conifer cone and the purple lilies of the field, can look, and see beauty in you, then why would you let the fallible human, distort They’re greatness, which also rests through you? It seems to me it’s easier to blame God for what humans do because you still wouldn’t have to set yourself free; but if you started seeing God as the all-powerful, all freeing, liberator of the universe, one would be forced to concede: I should be free, too. By setting yourself free from seeing God as one of construction and constriction, whose purpose is to punish and force conformity, one would divulge the glory in everything. Everything, therefore, would have immediate worth, deserving of all respect, love, and dignity; if we encountered the Spirit in everything, we’d be forced to make grandeur commitments to preserving they that dwell on earth.
In this world, God has always meant power. But power to do what? For most of history, doing things in God’s name meant power to dominate, colonize, and destroy. I wonder where the world would be if we accepted God represents undiluted love, not one-person unworthy of loving kindness and compassion; what if, instead of burning things down, we built altars up, where any person wanting to get to Spirit, could call it any name, pray in any way, as long as they took it with them. What if, no nation was under God, but all its people who wanted to be were? What if.
I miss the feeling of being on the altar; in the church where I first saw the light, but because they’ve freed me: my being is now the altar. I wish I had the language to say back then, who I am is caught up in those pews; next to salvation is all parts of me. There, where it’s just me and God, in that secret dwelling space where I am the great They are, rests those intricate beauties it took me this long to see. I am Divine. I am free. I am safe in those everlasting arms. You are, too. Thank God.
Whats going on?
Now that I’m finally done with all the trappings of graduate school I finally have the time to freely write and dedicate the energy to this newsletter. More to come on the projects I’ve been working on like revamping We, too, are, America, W2AA Media, reintroducing bookclubs and writers groups. Stay Tuned!
What I’ve been reading:
Jazz, Toni Morrison
On Juneteenth, Annette Gordon-Reed
The Fire Next Time, James Baldwin
The Will to Change, bell hooks