Separated Sundays
“It is appalling that the most segregated hour of Christian America is eleven o’clock on Sunday morning.” – Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
*My disclaimer is that I grew up attending Pentecostal and Holiness churches. I later attended Baptist and AME churches. Therefore, by “Black church” I’m referring to predominately African American churches in the U.S. that are highly charismatic in nature. I am aware and wholeheartedly recognize that not every church that identifies as Black fits this description.*
I LOVE Black churches. I’ve spent nearly 40 years of my life – with a few breaks here and there – in predominately Black churches. I love swaying choirs with matching choir robes. I love energetic and enthusiastic choir leaders. I love dance ministries and Easter programs with cute little children. I love the section of the church where older Black women, commonly referred to as “church mothers”, sit . I love the Word delivered in any manner of teaching and preaching to include hooping, shouting, preach-song combinations, and spontaneous praise. While these attributes are not exclusively unique to Black churches, I grew up experiencing these things in the Black church.
Ironically, for the last few months I’ve been attending a multiracial, multi-ethnic church – the most diverse congregation I have ever been a part of in my life. I’ve had an amazing time and credit much of my spiritual growth to worshiping as I have within this church. Once I attended my first service there, I never questioned the racial or ethnic make-up. It didn’t bother me that there were fewer people who looked like me. I just knew and know we worshiped together and shared in some powerful experiences. I kept going and never pondered otherwise until a week or so ago when I started feeling a heart tug about finding a church home when I return to the U.S. I pulled out the list I’d created a few weeks prior … all African American churches. I felt convicted.
Was it that the Black church is all I’ve ever known? Was it that I work and live in spaces where I don’t see many people of color so church is a familiar point for me to be with others who look like me? Was it because I grew up in the rural south and have spent the majority of my life in this region, where multiracial and multi-ethnic churches weren’t in close proximity to where I lived? Was it because of the history of the Black church in America and what a central force the church has been and continues to be in many communities related to advocacy, education, family support, and helping to provide basic needs to the larger community? But these very things didn’t halt or even slow my transition from a historically black college and university (HBCU) to predominately white institutions (PWIs). I’ve never not taken a job due to the demographic makeup of the organization. So why was church different? Is it that I’ve selfishly only considered church in the essence of what I can gain, what I need? If is that I never considered the potential benefit to others of me worshiping and serving in a diverse space? I see a place for me in my work spaces. I see things I can offer. I see a benefit to me being there. So why is church different? Is it that I never contemplated what I can offer to the church?
Last week I volunteered at a community project coordinated and facilitated by the church I attend. After we were done, I stood around talking to another volunteer. He asked how I landed at the church and I asked him the same. He shared a number of reasons why, including that he loves how diverse the church is. I confessed to him that I’ve never attended a church that wasn’t predominately African American. He replied, “Our church is what heaven will look like” :-). That stuck with me.
I’m still working through my hesitations, but I’ve added a list of three places I will visit when I return to the U.S. I’ve moved out of the way to allow God to fully guide me where I will be and serve. I very well may end up at a Black church, but for the first time in my life I’m okay if that doesn’t happen.