“Thank you for this day, thank you, Jesus…”
When Elder Cass finished, he turned to go, but the cord got caught in his crutch and the microphone hit the floor with an amplified phwock.
A woman quickly put it right.
Then the sanctuary quieted.
And with his cheeks and forehead already shiny with perspiration, Pastor Henry came forward.
The moment a cleric rises for a sermon is, for me, a time for the body to ease in, as if the good listening is about to start. I had always done this with the Reb, and, out of habit, I slid down in the wooden pew as the organist held the last chords of “Amazing Grace.”
Henry leaned forward toward the people. He held there, for a moment, as if pondering one last thought. Then he spoke.
“Amazing grace…,” he said, shaking his head. “…Amaaaa-zing grace.”
Someone repeated, “Amazing grace!” Others clapped. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be the quiet, reflective audience I was used to.
“Amaaaazing grace,” Henry bellowed. “I coulda been dead.”
“Mmm-hmm!”
“Shoulda been dead!”
“Mmm-hmm!”
“Woulda been dead!…But his grace!”
“Yes!”
“His grace…saved a wretch. And I was a wretch. You know what a wretch is? I was a crackhead, an alcoholic, I was a heroin addict, a liar, a thief. I was all those things. But then came Jesus-”
“Jesus!”
“I call him the greatest recycler I know!…Jesus…he lifts me up. He rearranges me. He repositions me. By myself, I’m no good-”
“Way-ell-”
“But he makes all the difference!”
“Amen to that!”
“Now, yesterday…yesterday, friends, a portion of the ceiling done fell down. It was leaking in the sanctuary. But you know-”
“Tell it, Rev-”
“You know-you-know-you-know…how that song go…Hallelujah-”
“Hallelujah!”
“Anyhow!”
He began to clap. The organist joined in. The drummer right behind him. And off they went, as if a floodlight had just ignited the altar.
“Haaaa-llelujah anyhow…” Henry sang, “…never gonna let life’s troubles get you down…
“No matter what comes your way,
“Lift your voice and say-
“Hallelujah…anyhow!”
His voice was beautiful, pure and crisp and almost too high-pitched, it seemed, to come from such a large man. The whole congregation was immediately engaged, inspired, clapping, dipping shoulders and singing along-all except me. I felt like the loser who got left out of the choir.
“Hal-le-lujah…anyhow!”
When the song stopped, Henry picked right back up with his preaching. There was no line between prayer, hymn, word, song, preach, beseech, or call and respond. It was apparently all part of the package.
“We were in here last night,” Henry said, “just looking around, looking around, and the plaster was peeling and the paint was chipping everywhere-”
“Sure is!”
“And you could hear the water pouring in. We had buckets all over. And I asked the Lord. I began to pray. I said, ‘Lord, show us your mercy and your kindness. Help us heal your house. Just help us fix this hole-’”
“All right now-”
“And for a few minutes, I despaired. Because I don’t know where the money will come from to fix it. But then I stopped.”
“That’s right!”
“I stopped, because I realized something.”
“Yes, Rev!”
“The Lord, you see, he’s interested in what you do, but the Lord don’t care nothing about no building.”
“Amen!”
“The Lord don’t care nothing about no building!”
“That’s RIGHT!”
“Jesus said, ‘Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.’ God don’t care about no building. He cares about you, and what’s in your heart.”
“Lord of Hosts!”
“And if this is the place where we come to worship-if this is the place where we come to worship…if this is the only place we can come to worship…”
He paused. His voice lowered to a whisper.
“Then it is holy to him.”
“Yes, Rev!…Preach it, Pastor!…Amen!…Way-ell!”
The people rose and clapped enthusiastically, convinced, thanks to Henry, that while their building might be disintegrating, their souls were still in sight, and perhaps the Lord was using that roof hole to peer down and help them.
I looked up and saw the red buckets and the water dripping. I saw Henry stepping back, in his huge blue robe, singing along in prayer. I wasn’t sure what to make of him-charismatic, enigmatic, problematic? But you had to figure his mother was right all along. He was going to be a preacher, no matter how long it took.
I begin to read about faiths beyond my own. I am curious to see if they aren’t more similar than I had believed. I read about Mormons, Catholics, Sufis, Quakers.
I come upon a documentary about the Hindu celebration of Kumbh Mela, a holy pilgrimage from the mouth of the Ganges River to its source in the Himalayas. The legend is that four drops of immortal nectar were dropped when the gods fought with the demons in the sky, and that nectar landed in four places on earth. The pilgrimage is a journey to those places; to bathe in the river waters, to wash away sins, and to seek health and salvation.
Millions attend. Tens of millions. It is an incredible sight. I see bearded men dancing. I see holy men with pierced lips and powdered skin. I see elderly women who have traveled for weeks to seek the majesty of God in the snowcapped mountains.
It is the largest gathering of humanity on earth and has been called “the world’s largest single act of faith.” Yet for most in my country, it is totally alien. The documentary refers to Kumbh Mela as “being part of something big while doing something small.”
I wonder if that applies to visiting an old man in New Jersey?
A Good Marriage
I haven’t said a lot about the Reb’s wife. I should.
According to Jewish tradition, forty days before a male baby is born, a heavenly voice shouts out whom he will marry. If so, the name “Sarah” was yelled for Albert sometime in 1917. Their union was long, loving, and resilient.
They met through a job interview in Brighton Beach -he was a principal, she was seeking an English teacher’s job-and they disagreed on several issues and she left thinking, “There goes that job”; but he hired her and admired her. And eventually, months later, he asked her into his office.
“Are you seeing anyone romantically?” he inquired.
“No, I’m not,” she replied.
“Good. Please keep it that way. Because I intend to ask you to marry me.”
She hid her amusement.
“Anything else?” she said.
“No,” he answered.
“Okay.” And she left.
It took months for him to follow up, his shyness having taken over, but he did, eventually, and they courted. He took her to a restaurant. He took her to Coney Island. The first time he tried to kiss her, he got hiccups.
Two years later, they were married.
In more than six decades together, Albert and Sarah Lewis raised four children, buried one, danced at their kids’ weddings, attended their parents’ funerals, welcomed seven grandchildren, lived in just three houses, and never stopped supporting, debating, loving, and cherishing each other. They might argue, even give each other the silent treatment, but their children would see them at night, through the door, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding hands.