I had to take a class in my graduate studies called "Cultural Diversity" at the University of North Texas during the summer of 2001. To complete the course, the class was required to participate in a cultural event that was different from their own culture. My choice was a visit to a Sunday morning church service with parishioners who were African-American at the Sweet Home Missionary Baptist Church in Garland, Texas. I grew up in a segregated world of the sixties and seventies in Texas. Hell, even my school, Richardson ISD, was not desegregated but by a court order in the early 70's. Being that I was of the privileged class that was white, male and non-handicapped, I was deprived of meeting others who had to deal with issues different than my own experience. I did not understand. I was able to get over my fear of persons who had handicaps by having a stroke in 1991. It was then that I started working on understanding others who were 'different' than me in a newfound light. I realize that I am not free of prejudices yet, but I hope I am making progress. Below the orange squiggle is an essay that I wrote while taking that class, the "Cross Cultural Field Trip." I hope you will enjoy reading the diary as I did making the field trip and of writing the essay.
Sweet Home Missionary Baptist Church:
Cross Cultural Field Trip
Garland, Texas is an evolving community. Less than a generation removed from more tolerate view of race relations, yet still rich with the thought there is a “RIGHT” side of the tracks. The name, “The Sweet Home Missionary Baptist Church”, evoked a unique set of thoughts and expectations in my mind. This cultural event was a quick choice because of my background and my previous fears of the African-American population. I attend Eastern Hills Baptist Church in Garland. It is often said the most segregated place and time in the world is a church on Sunday; Eastern Hills supports this stereotype. I would like to compare and contrast fairly these Baptist churches.
I drove by ahead of time and noted the service began at 10:45 AM. Not wanting to be late, I showed at 10:40 AM. There were not many cars when I was pulled into the parking lot. I was familiar with the building that housed Sweet Home. I had previously worked on its cooling system. Fifteen years ago, the building knew a different name, and it was home to a White congregation. At that time the fire came not only from the pulpit, but also from ancient and decrepit air conditioner. Now as I went inside the cold air felt good--a little too good. Did the two new A/C units I now saw outside simply chill me or did I have goose bumps? I had wondered whether I should wear my suit. My regular church has a custom, which goes, “No coat or ties from the month of May until after Labor Day.” I decided on a short-sleeved dress shirt, tie, dark-blue slacks and dress shoes. Naturally, the first gentleman who greeted me was wearing an expensive suit. As the story turns out, I stood out! I was the only male not wearing a suit. Some of the male congregation dressed conservatively, others wore neon blue and red suits. The ladies were also well attired. Some wore hats, but all wore dresses. Jerry and Marvin, the associate ministers, greeted me. They told me how pleased they were for me to join in their worship of the Lord. They did not ask me about my family, but made sure I felt welcome in their home. It worked.
Jerry told me the service begins about 11:00 AM, and he walked with me to the chapel; we were the first ones there. As I enter I notice wooden pews with blue cushions and an alter like those found in so many Protestant churches. I noticed the low hanging fixtures over the congregation area and the bright spotlights behind the pulpit. This chapel and its furnishings are over 35 years old. But the bright, red carpet was new and vibrant. There were no hymnals in the pew, though there were bookracks to hold them. In fact, there were no music sheets at all, either for the choir or for the organist. 11:00 AM came and went, and there I was with Jerry, Marvin and my thoughts.
I noticed there was a difference in language. The gentlemen would talk to each other in one dialect, and then shift when I was included in the conversation. It felt eerie. They also had trouble referring that I was white. I guess they were confused whether to call me White, Caucasian or Anglo-American--a nightmare for those who wish to be politically correct. Marvin was giving instructions on where I might find the most comfortable area to sit and warned me that the pastor has a special program in the service where he asks everybody to stand up that is a visitor. There was a full nine-month pregnant pause, as Marvin struggled not to illicit what his face was saying, "You will have stand up as the minister will certainly notice you as a …ahhh… visitor.” Marvin could not quite bring himself to say “White” visitor, I thought.
I picked up on the self-regulation of their language when the parishioners would talk to me. For example, Jerry was talking about how a wife should follow the husband in praise for the Lord. But that too many times, I noticed, the women were the only ones in the church. I could almost see the gears turning when speaking with Jerry. “Men,” Jerry wailed, “should assume the leadership over their woman …uh… their wives.” All I could think was I met my first Black Promise Keeper.
By now, it was 11:10 AM Central, 10:45 Sweet Home Time. Marvin was checking the sound system. When the service finally started, I felt like I was in a rock-concert, or dance hall the sound was so loud. A few more parishioners strolled in. I chose my seat on the fifth pew carefully. I wanted to have a good view of the service and to hear everything that was said. I wanted to be noticed by the congregation and observe how the congregation reacted to the service. I selected my seat just off center, leaving enough room for two people to sit beside me should they choose. I was pleasantly surprised when someone did.
The organist started playing his electronic organ at 11:20 AM. It was amazing to hear him play, with no interruptions, blending one song or rhythm into the next. He continued through to the second sermon. It was like one big jam session. By 11:30 the service was well underway, and I began to think this is a small congregation, the chapel was about half full. The choir marched in, wearing thick (Hot) robes or gowns made of thick velvet. They looked to weight twenty pounds apiece. Four ushers were made up of women in uniform, who wore white dresses with black gloves and matching gold broaches. They help with seating until about 12:10 PM, and by then, the chapel was getting full. Even the people in the choir were “late.” If you are late to a service at my church, you are under the evil eye of everybody in the congregation.
The congregation became very involved in the service by clapping to the music (there was always music) and dancing in the aisle. The congregation also showed involvement by the constant saying of ‘Amen’s’ and other words of affirmation and non-verbal communication gestures. I felt myself being pulled into the service, genuinely involved. Never did I suffer from the near death of boredom that I feel in other churches. I felt safe and comfortable; at white fundamentalist Baptist churches I often feel a threat to my sense of ‘self.’ Where the churches preach guilt and the threat of eternal damnation, here there was a voice of ‘hope’ being preached.
Music filled the air without any break until the beginning of the second sermon. At that time, the organist took about ten-minute break, and then resumed playing nonstop though to the end of services at 1:30 PM. The second sermon was divided into three parts. The first section started similar to other sermons at other churches I have been to. The second part was a sing-song tone speech, turning into a full-blown chant. It was very poetic. In the third part the organist began playing softly, building to a crescendo at the finish.
There were three offerings. The ushers passing around a plate accepted one, a Benevolent Offering. I handed three dollars to the plate. Like all things, one should read the fine print, I did not. If I had I would have known there was also a Public Offering and Tithing. The congregation went up to the alter one by one, like a parade, placing their second offering on the plate. Not knowing what was going on, I put another dollar in the plate. Another twist were men at the alter counting the money during the procession. After this offering, the Pastor announced the church was in need of 93 more dollars. And so there was a third offering. This time, the ushers passed the plate. They were going to meet their budget or we were going to stick around and pray until they did. I declined to contribute to the third offering. I noticed other parishioners did not contribute either. After the third offering, Pastor Wilson announces they had collected 115 dollars. Amen!
The service ended at 1:25 PM. The temperature was 104 degrees outside, 65 degrees in the church. While some women brought coats to ward off this chill, others actively participating brought hand fans to cool themselves. To me, the chapel was like a meat locker. The people at the church were congenial and friendly. Had the roles been reversed, a person who was black visiting the church I attend, I do not think he or she would be as openly received. I want to call special attention to the woman who sat next to me. She offered to share her Bible when the minister called out to the congregation to follow along as he was reading. That was nice, but at the end of the service, she did something extraordinary. It will stay with me as long as I live.
You see, I have had a stroke, which affects my right side. My right arm is paralyzed and I cannot open the fingers on my right hand. At the end of the service at my church, Eastern Hills Baptist Church, there is a similar tradition of joining hands for the final prayer. But at Eastern Hills, I feel that most members are afraid to treat or deal with my disability. This is solved by having my wife sit to my right and there is no problem. She opens the hand and places hers’ in it. The problem comes when she is not on my right and I will join hands with another parishioner. I can feel them tense up. I assume it is their discomfort of having to hold onto my hand, which at times, is more like a claw. They usually grab hold of wrist, but the reality of their discomfort lingers long after the episode.
I did not think about joining hands at the end of the service until it happened. But she nonchalantly took my hand in hers, unfolded my fingers with her other hand, and placed her hand in mine. She then held it up the weight of my with hers, as we raise our hands while the prayer was sung. Her welcoming me into her space, the thoughtfulness of her doing for me what I had trouble doing myself, was beautiful. Her action was genuine. She did all of this with fluidity free of words or nonverbal gestures of discomfort. This was a powerful communication of grace. My wife is able to be that close, but I would be hard pressed to think of any one else that would treat me that way. I was touched. I want to share the Sweet Home Missionary Baptist Church with my family.
Post Script Before I published this diary, I spoke with Marvin at Sweet Home. Marvin was on his way out of the church, but he took time to visit with me. He claimed he was not the same Marvin in the summer of '91 because he was in Norfolk, Virginia at the time. Anyway, I left with him a copy of this diary with an explanation that I wanted to publish it in DK. Chester B. Johnson called me a little later and gave his permission to publish and use an image of the church in the diary. Mr. Johnson also invited me and my family to back into church. Needless to say, I was touched, again.