Church, part 2

To finish the last post, I did not preach. But I did have a great seat for the service. Debs, a young preacher, was scheduled to speak and did so swimmingly . . .she is British. We were fortunate to attend the church on a day when the children's and youth choirs sang. There were three choirs: children, mid-highs, and older teens. Each choir sang one song, accompanied by the guitar player who also played for the congregational singing. Each group began tentatively. After all, they were children and teens singing in front of a tent-full of people, it was early in the morning, and it was sweltering. But as they got into the music and the crowd supported them with smiles and an occasional shouted encouragement or applause, their confidence grew. They sang louder, clearer, and harmonies broke out. They moved with the music. Sort of a parable of church, I remember thinking. There was a lot of time to think. We were there more than three hours.

The guitar player was the best. He played an old guitar of unidentifiable heritage, the finish cracked by the weather, the mismatched and worn strings stretching high above the neck and frets. The worship leader would start the next song without consulting the guitar player, leaving him to locate the key on his own, if such a key really existed, sliding his slender, long and obviously powerful fingers searchingly up and down the neck hoping for something that might match the leader's pitch. But he played on, providing accompaniment and rhythm, in that familiar Caribbean style, sometimes smiling, sometimes struggling, sometimes deeply moved by the music.

That is not to say the worship leader was not also great. He was wearing a dark grey suit, never removing his jacket. We would sing each song for about fifteen minutes, the worship leader exhorting us each time we repeated the verses and chorus. He would call out the words before each line. He began to dance, singing louder and faster as each song moved along. We sang about six songs. It was ninety plus degrees. We were in a tent packed with people. The guy was wearing a suit. He was a superman.

The preacher was not there Sunday, but his wife was. She was teaching Sunday School to the whole group when we first arrived. She was teaching from Mark 9, and periodically would insist that we recite a part of the passage. Over and over. She was serious and intense. I believe we all knew that verse by the time she finished. In Creole. She was a great teacher and it was obvious by the attention she demanded that she was respected by all ages.

Toward the end of the service we had prayer. No one led it. We all prayed out loud, our own prayers, at the same time. It was a beautiful thing, starting out as a complex, quiet rumbling, and ending as if it were a coordinated piece of music directed by an unseen hand. It got quieter without obvious cue, and then it ended.

And then we were done.

Merci Senor Jesus. Merci bon Jesus. Merci Mon Dieu.

Amen. Hallelujah.