Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Going There

When I was eleven, my family moved from Greencastle, Pennsylvania to Scott County, Tennessee, where I don't recall ever seeing a black person, except maybe one adopted or foreign-exchange kid. I heard tell of some black man trying to run a ferris wheel, one time, and getting shot at. Heard the shooter missed, but all I can say for sure is--by the time I got to the fair--some haggard-looking, white dude was running the wheel.

Fast forward a few years, and I had to select a January-Term class at Maryville College in Maryville, Tennessee. I decided to study black gospel music. Larry Ervin taught the class. I don't know that I have words to write him for you, but I'll start here: just to think about him (and he's still alive and well) makes my eyes well up with tears. I love him like that.

Larry--and we all called him Larry--has big energy, big presence, big patience. He has a big laugh, and he has this way of looking, from day one, at a person and making him or her feel loved to the toes. I can't think someone could know Larry and not be ready to just lie down and die for him, and it's a thing that sticks like lamb stew to the bones; I haven't seen Larry for seventeen years, and I'd get hit by a train for him, yet.

So a requirement of this class, on top of getting some book smarts, was to perform in a concert with the black gospel choir. I'd thought going into J-Term that the singing would be a one-shot deal, but turns out I loved the music and Larry even more, so I joined for real and good: sang with Voices of Praise in many different churches and several different states.

I wasn't the only white person in the choir, but I was one of very few, and sometimes the only white people in the churches were the ones who stepped off our bus. I felt white, always, in those places, but I also felt loved.

I used to wonder if it were just Larry: if he cast enough light to dispel shadows in those churches. But many years later, I was driving into Goochland, Virginia and bawling my eyes out when I passed a little, white church on my right. So much light shone out its windows, and I didn't know anything about the place but wanted nothing more than to be where that light was. I turned around as soon as possible and went inside, slid into the back pew.

Fifteen or so black people were finishing up a study on James Chapters 3 and 4. They didn't seem at all surprised to see me, even with my teary face and yoga pants. The minister looked up and said, "Welcome." I listened to the rest of the study and stood to pray with the congregation. When it was over, and before I could get out the door, a woman hugged me and said she was glad I'd come.

I have sadder stories to tell about race as pertaining to my every-day life, but I want it on record: if I need a church, and there's a light shining from within one, I won't wonder or worry about the color of its people. Because--in my experience, with or without Larry Ervin--it doesn't much matter with Jesus up inside.

10 comments:

  1. Beautiful post! I found you over at Jumping Tandem! Blessings!

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    1. Thank you so much, Cynthia! I feel those blessings!

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  2. A wonderful story filled with love and light!

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  3. oo cool....went to an amazing black gospel church when i lived in nc...used to take some of the kids i worked with...they can def work it up...haha...ok, over to deidra's...been a while since i have been there...

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    1. Thank you, Brian, for reading my words here...and there. You're such a good friend.

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  4. Your beautiful words have made me fall in love with the big heart of Larry....love this Brandee, and love you to!! (love your new pic!)

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  5. I love this. Even though I never took a class from Larry or worked with him, I can still see him, very clearly, walking around campus, being happy and wonderful. We were in a wonderful place with wonderful people during a wonderful time. I hope it's still that way.

    The rest of your story-- the lighted church while you're sobbing-- convicts me. I need to go to church. I need to reach out to people. I spend so much time afraid people will reject me for my radicalism (I lay hands; I pray in tongues, etc.) that I don't ever reach out to anybody. I'll get up and over that.

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    1. Oh, Sarah, there's a place for you. Look up the Pentecostals in your neck of the woods, make some phone calls, ask some questions. You'll find some like-minded folks. Love you.

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