God's Work

Like the shrill beckoning of the shofar calling Jews to the Temple to pray, the high pitched peacock-like scream of “yes,” into the microphone at the Gospel–rockin church I attended this morning was certainly a bang on the door of my heart to let God in for a conversation.

“YES!” This tall, passionate black woman bellowed as she squeezed her eyes shut and slapped her hand against her thigh in time with the music. “YES!” her head snapped back toward the rafters each time she let her affirmation to God’s will fly.

One of her choir mates broke his face smiling and pumped his fist in the air forcefully connecting with each of her proclamations.

Thank God.

I need these reality checks to become fully human. I wish I had the courage to sing like that lady. Though I’m sure she suffers like me and everyone else, she decided to cast off any shackles like anger, depression, selfishness, or whatever she may have been feeling today to glorify God.

Yesterday I wrote about manual labor. When I was in Canada, I imagined that work had to be worked into me; my muscles had to become accustomed to it. Likewise, I visualized that my acceptance of God’s love had to be worked into me as well. As I was sewing, making candles, cooking, cleaning, canning, I thought about God’s love being melted, chopped, stitched, scrubbed, cut, sealed into my heart with each little task I performed.

Today, I thought that worship is work. The Gospel said that only those who work should eat. Praise has to be worked into my body so I can fully eat –the bread of LIFE! There was a joke made about the priest today that he works really hard so he can eat more, but I think that’s true with letting God in too.

Am I working really hard at letting my heart be open to love? Or is this a gentle work that’s hard not because I have to do it but because I have to let God do it?

My grandpop gave me some off the cuff advice when I left his house last night. He said, “Don’t work too hard, but don’t stop working.”

This morning, the congregation processed to drop offerings into a basket at the foot of the altar. I watched broken people from a broken world line up to take whatever they had –monetarily and spiritually, to the altar. From the outside, one might say it was a poor, rag-tag group. One woman wore a tank top showing off the tattoo on her bicep. A few people sported mullets, not caring that some say that fashion faded in the 80’s, and one woman wore her mantilla, a traditional lace head covering used in prayer, like a do-rag.

But from the inside, I felt totally connected with these people. There is hope amid brokenness. And light in the darkness. (Some might have said I was a light in the darkness since I was a minority there and race is still a sensitive issue in my city, but I could not have felt more a part of this Church today.)

We are all members of the Body of Christ. And I need to be worked on, and I need to work to eat, and I need the grace of God just like everyone else. “YES!” I certainly do.