“This is my story, this is my song.”
Fanny J. Crosby – Blessed Assurance
One of my friends in high school used to mow the lawn at the Baptist church down the block. His family attended this fellowship and made this chore one of his weekly responsibilities. The building and the property are more run down these days than when he was doing their yard work. The behemoth TV satellite dish at the south side of the church is from that same era. It is way too large for the roof, has its own cement foundation and surrounding chain link fence, and looks like it is part of NASA’s broadcasting network.
I showed up five minutes early and walked to the wrong entrance. What looked like the church’s front door went to the Sunday School wing and the door was still locked. I made my way around the side of the building and found the door into the foyer.
It was a cold and dreary winter day on the outside but it warmed up immediately once I stepped inside the church. I’m not sure if Kimberly was the official greeter or not, but she is definitely has the type of comforting personality that you want hanging out near the doors to welcome people to the service. She asked the typical questions you would to a new face, never losing eye contact with me as she handed me a bulletin and apologized to me for the lingering symptoms of her sinus infection.
Two or three more people were immediately pleased to make my acquaintance and make me feel welcome. I took a seat three rows from the front along with a Baptist hymnal to guide me through the service outlined in the bulletin. Organ music played quietly in the background and Kimberly and the trumpet player struggled to get the Power Point image from the laptop onto the screen behind the pulpit. The technology seemed to have caught Kimberly’s virus too.
The pastor came on to the stage from a back room and sat down at the piano. I heard a church member a row behind me detailing to her guest (an aunt from out of town) that the pastor not only preached each Sunday, but also led the music service. I started looking for signs of weariness on the pastor’s face but I couldn’t detect any stress once the fingers started pressing the ivories into notes of joy. The next half hour was pure bliss! Since the church wasn’t large enough for a choir, the congregation all joined their pastor in song.
The eight year old girl sitting in front of me belted out the songs like a Black, gospel soloist and I joined in behind her like one of her backup singers. The lady next to me touched my arm between songs and told me what a nice voice I had. Since all the songs and hymns were familiar to me from my childhood, I felt very comfortable participating. The only surprise is that the pastor played the music with more Honky-tonk rhythm than I thought was permissible in a church sanctuary. I made up my mind to invite my wife back to this church to enjoy this expression of joy, wondering if I’ll have to wait a whole year for my project to be over before I’ll get a chance to do so.
One of the deacons came forward to give the “Call to Worship.” He described the church as being a filling station for the community. He encouraged those in attendance not to just get a gallon or two of fuel but to top off their tank. I considered what I would take away from this morning for my experience in this neighborhood worship.
The pastor spoke about having an anchor, about having a safe place in a storm, about being tied securely to something more significant to yourself. People were moved (audible responses) when the shootings in Arizona were mentioned by the pastor. It made sense in the context of what was being discussed for the church to wrestle with the pain and the tragedies felt outside the church doors.
We were all invited to the front at the end of the service to join hands in prayer as one body. I may have only been introduced to this group 90 minutes before, but I felt a part of them. After one visit, I still don’t know many particulars of an American Baptist church, but I sure do like this particular filling station located at the end of the street.
