Someday kind of Sunday

Yesterday was one of those perfect January Sunday mornings in Alabama.  The sky was shocking blue with not a whisker of a cloud to be seen. The early morning air was cold, but by church time, which everyone knows is Biblically set at 11:00 a.m., the temperature had risen, but still cool enough to encourage that extra quickness of step on the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of the coat drawing it tight and close as the intermittent shadows of buildings remind of how cold the air can still be without the warmth of the sun.  On a day like this the sun and the shadows make a noticeable difference.  Strange how the same thing can be said in the hot Alabama summer, except when it's hot we long for and linger in the cool, dark shadows.

But it was cool yesterday.  We relished the comforting warmth of the sun as we walked up the street into the sanctuary of St. John AME church, clueless of the simmering embers of warmth waiting to be fanned into flame in that holy place.   I just walked from my car, which I parked in the next block.  Many members of Birmingham First United Methodist parked at their church and walked the few blocks over to St. John.  It was a beautiful sight, this crowd that was walking the streets and avenues around 16th and 17th street, skirting Kelly Ingram Park, the Civil Rights Museum and the 16th Street Baptist Church,  moving toward St. John AME.  It wasn't organized. Far from it. Just groups of happy people of diverse everything you can imagine, walking together, smiling and laughing in the warm winter sun of downtown Birmingham, Alabama. It was almost good enough to be church on this day. All these beautiful folk headed to church.

And then we had it.

Church that is.

The truth is, neither of these downtown churches fills up its sanctuary pews on Sunday mornings.   But another truth is, when we worshiped together yesterday, unity in diversity, one making the sacrifice of leaving home, the other making the sacrifice of opening its home, everything was full.  The sanctuary, the music, the dance, the scripture, the prayer, the sermon, the hearts . . .

And my eyes.

I was surprised by grace once again.  I cried. We cried. Tears of joy and inspiration.  I believe music is a language that God uses to speak to the soul and heart of things that words cannot convey.  The Aeolians, a choir from Oakwood University in Huntsville, Alabama, sang special music from the high choir loft above the chancel. I cannot describe it. At best I struggle to hold on to what it spoke to my heart in that language without words. There was a bold liturgical dance by a courageous young artist, set to the recorded voice of Martin Luther King, Jr. as he delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech, timeless words that pierce the heart with the past and then heal it with hope for the future.   There was prayer, and scripture, and a sermon, all inspired by the Spirit in that moment.  Rev. Mashod Evans is the pastor at St. John.  Rev. Stephanie Arnold is an associate pastor at First UMC Birmingham.  They have been friends for awhile.  And they allowed the Spirit of God to move through them to move us to that place and time.  It was indescribable.  Which is hard on a guy who likes to describe things with words.  

So as much as I would love to describe what happened, I just am not capable.

It was like living a dream.

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