My friend
Clanton Dawson invited me to the lectionary group that meets every Wednesday at
the Rock Bridge Christian Church.
Maureen Dickman, the pastor at the church, followed up with an invite
when we met at Dunn Bros Coffee. I was
looking for a safe place to unwind and share Biblical and theological
thoughts. I needed more than the Sunday
morning shout that came with sitting in the pews at the Second Missionary
Baptist Church.
Part of me
was fading away after deciding to relocate to Columbia to take care of my sick
father. Most of my nights found me
waiting in the dark, afraid to sleep after watching my father fall on numerous occasions. My desire to preach and participate in
worship kept me trapped in between sickness and hope. My midnight torture was followed by days of
walking devoid of sleep.
Caregiving
was taking a massive toil on both my spirit and body. I prayed for time away from cooking, taking
vitals, handing out medication, trips to doctors and tending to other household
chores. Surviving with the daily task
was worsened by the messages from Durham, NC.
We miss you. Things are not the
same. Please come back. When will you
come back? Why did you leave?
Each note did
more to shatter my dwindling hope. Each
day felt like a nightmare. I needed to
preach. I needed to pray. I needed a place to remind me that God’s will
for me is here.
I exhaled
with each footstep as I approached the door. Clanton was there to greet me.
Maureen was happy to see me. The others
welcomed me to the group. More exhales followed
as I contributed to the study. For a
moment, it felt like I was back in the classroom. Yes, temporary relief from
the burden.
Then she
spoke. My friend spoke. My twin shared. Bonnie Cassida’s body was bruised by a long
illness. She needed relief from the
weekly activity of the church.
“Can you
preach for me?” she asked through email shortly after our meeting.
It was hard
for me to preach that Sunday. It came after
my father was forced back into the hospital due to an infection. The illness would lead to an amputation. After weeks in rehab, he returned for more
amputation and a longer stay. Then he
broke his femur. Everything seemed to be
falling apart.
The crying
worsened.
“God fix my
daddy!” I screamed each night. “God
grant me the strength to be what I must be in this situation.”
It was never
enough. There was more to do than I was
able to give. The urge to preach, to
pray and pastor intensified. Then Bonnie
called.
“Can you
serve Bethel Church as I take time to heal?”
I said
yes. Saying yes scared me.
There were no
comfort zones. All of my teaching and
preaching was offered from the perspective of the black faith tradition. I agreed to offer service without knowing
what to do. I brought my faith and
training, yet something was missing.
Everything was unfamiliar.
There were no
amen’s and yes Lord's to set the tone for my preaching.
The idiomatic expression of the black faith tradition was not there to
create the context for what I do best.
My preaching was limited. The
mood and issues in the room forced me to step outside of myself and learn from
those in need of ministry.
I felt lonely
when I preached. It was a new language
in need of translation. I pulled from my
vast library for help. I revisited Theo Witvliet’s The Way of the Black Messiah to address the balance between
universality and particularity. I clung
to the teachings of Howard Thurman to rekindle his vision for a multicultural
church. I read J. Kameron Carter’s book Race: A Theological Account and Willie
Jennings book The Christian Imagination:
Theology and the Origins of Race to connect with the teachings of my
friends who teach at Duke University.
I needed more
to help me. I agreed with Carter's
contention that race is a social construction used to manage belonging. I agreed with Bonnie’s vision regarding
diversity. I needed more. In giving, something was being lost along the
way.
I reflected on
my conversations with Craig S. Keener, professor of New Testament at Asbury
Theological Seminary, before his decision to join me at the Orange Grove
Missionary Baptist Church. I told him to read the Autobiography of Malcolm X and meet with me after he finished. I wanted to be sure he understood black
culture and pain before becoming a white minister in a predominately black
church. He came back a few days later.
“I wish I
could take my white skin and make it black,” he cried.
He joined
us. We learned from him. He taught us humility and service. He was ordained and moved on to become one of
the leading New Testament scholars in America.
He tore off
his skin and made it black. Could I do
the same?
I preached
with hesitation. I learned to strip
myself of the part that limited my being present. They loved and accepted that part of me that
presented itself on Sunday morning. I
felt the message of Frantz Fanon in his book Black Skin, White Mask. My
training allowed me to maneuver around the sensitive matter of race and other divides,
but was something lost along the way? Was I becoming something other as I
offered a part of myself in ministry?
I kept
praying. The tears followed each prayer.
“Lord, what
does it all mean?”
Then it
happened.
You are
called to this. Move toward Howard
Thurman’s vision. Embrace King’s
dream. It’s not what is lost along the way;
it’s the emergence of a new reality that demands the steps you are taking.
Pause and
pray. Weep some more. Still asking questions along the way.
“Send me
Lord, and I will follow.”
This is the
road less traveled.
Teach me Lord
Jesus, teach me.
It's important that you share your gift. I am glad there are people in Columbus who reached out to you and now you are able to reach out to others. Your father raised a special person.
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