The choir was singing like the Lord was working His way through them for sure. Some had their eyes closed and seemed to be in their own little world. He loved to watch the sisters especially. His wife didn’t understand that one, but there was nothing sinful about his admiration. The sisters just had such deep feelings about things. They struggled so, too, but come Sunday morning they could let it all go, and they did, too, with power and grace.
He really needed them today. Needed their strength and their love, and he felt both as they sang and swayed. Yes, Lord, give me some of that power. Make this two-bit fieldhand into one of your most blessed. He had fasted and he had prayed for a renewed spirit, and now the miracle had arrived. He bobbed his head to the beat. Lord, he was starting to feel good! He had walked in this morning feeling a little blue and very low down. But now he could feel the presence of greatness. The Lord had not forsaken them. He was here, right in the midst of the children who needed Him. Sister Martha was standing now — her shoes were already off, and her arms were making their way up high. She was getting ready, getting ready to fly. Go ’head, Sister Martha, he thought, you go ahead and just soar! He sat back now and got good and comfortable so he, too, could go along for the ride.
Hallelujah! Her heart was now healed,
and her worn soul had been made new.
Yet there was more to be said, even more for her to do.
The Lord had filled her with His great spirit
He had shown her His great love.
And like the never-ending waters springing forth like the fountains,
so the holy waters welled within her
ready to break through the now-weakened barriers.
She looked at the others, but they were bowed at the throne of mercy,
bound in their own thoughts, coping with their own pain.
The horn of Gabriel had summoned forth the fine saints
and Sister Martha answered His call.
She shouted!
Majestic and wondrous in her worship
She sang to Him exalting His fine praises.
How else could she thank Him for His goodness, His mercy
And this, another victory.
Her aged body became her temple
and the pews her points of penance.
The world stood silent before her
and her splendorous spiritual captivated them.
Her dignity, her power, her strength yet abound,
Sister Martha loved Him without a single solitary sound.
Her body, once crippled and ladened with pain
was now agile as a panther’s and graceful as a gazelle’s.
The sanctuary rolled out the red carpet,
for she was to fulfill a most blessed duty.
Her aisles became the tabernacle for the transition
and they all witnessed a most majestic worship.
Sister Martha’s arms arched upward as she
reached for Him and twisted in His glory!
The tears had smoothed the wrinkles upon her cheeks
and she seemed ageless, the everlasting beauty.
She cared not for the invasion, because
they were not a part of this majesty.
This was a private performance for her Savior
her God and her blessed Lord.
She had asked Him for a blessing
and the Master had seen fit to grant her a reward.
How she must love Him,
and how He must love her.
And as Sister Martha danced
The Reverend couldn’t help but thank Him.
Sister Martha danced not only for her redemption
and honor to His glory, but she danced ever so proudly
for His salvation and deliverance.
She was dancing for Him.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
The religious life and worship practices of many African Americans today are rooted in traditional African religions and white Protestant evangelism. Although a few slaves in Maryland and Louisiana were raised as Catholics, most African Americans had virtually no contact with Catholicism and instead converted, in large numbers, to the Baptist and Methodist faiths in the late eighteenth century. The Baptists and the Methodists were attractive to enslaved Africans for three main reasons: 1) the emotional charge of the service reminded them of their African homes and their own native worship traditions; 2) many Baptists and Methodists claimed to be opposed to slavery and thus were associated with emancipation; and 3) the Baptist and Methodist churches licensed black men to preach.
By the 1780s, pioneer black ministers were already ministering to their own people in the South, and blacks were fairly well integrated into the Protestant religions. However, white men who preached love and brotherhood but practiced bigotry and hatred were still the norm. It was typical for the master to beat his slaves on Sunday before the service and then force them to attend church, where the message was that slavery was good and that to be dutiful to a white master was to be dutiful to God. Despite the obvious hypocrisies, which endured for generations, the enslaved Africans clung to their newfound Christianity and even held their own secret meetings and worship services within the slave community.
From the time of slavery to the present day, the church has continued to be the center of the African American community. It was the place that folks gathered to discuss important happenings and planned a course of action. It was the place you could come to share your burdens with your neighbor. It was the place where you left the injustices and injuries of the world in the hands of a higher power. It was the rock of Gibraltar, a place to hold on to and a place to let go. In over three hundred years, the African American hasn’t found a better place for maintenance of the soul.
They come for different reasons. They are looking to receive all kinds of blessings, bringing with them a range of life experiences. The characters in “Church Folks” symbolically represent this very scenario — different hopes for different folks coming together on a common ground. The poetic tribute at the end of the service is a testament to the intensity of the experience. It is joyous, it is sorrowful. It is soothing, it is powerful. It whispers, and then again it shouts. It makes you laugh and it moves you to tears. It’s elevating and it’s humbling. You never know what to expect from the black church, but there’s a comfort in knowing that it’s always there.
A Final Say
So, what is this book about? It’s about the extraordinary lives of some pretty ordinary folks. It’s about an appreciation for the words, wit, and wisdom from yesterday that help make sense of a chaotic today. It’s a thank-you from an African American woman to some pretty awe-inspiring colored women. And it’s about folk culture as a continuum, a link back to the essence of who we are and how we came to be.
This is also a wake-up call to some people I know, who in their desire to escape those difficult days and hard-to-survive places have foolishly thought they could leave their souls behind along with some of that pain, and then re-create themselves as they see fit. Well, we may run, but we can’t hide, not from ourselves, not ever. And what’s more, we shouldn’t want to. Our heritage is a badge of honor that represents strength and survival. It should be given the respect it deserves.
Finally, this book is about multicultural education. It’s about letting some good people into a place they’ve never before been invited to enter. This book is a good look at everyday living, and to really understand folks, that’s the kind of view you have to have.
My quest to become the kind of woman my grandmamas would be proud of has been a long and difficult journey. It has meant taking off that mask of middle-class pretentiousness and dropping that “me generation” crap from my realm of consciousness. It has meant going back to some basic wisdom that is getting increasingly difficult to find but that, once recovered, is certainly worthy of praise. For me, the significance of my work is the ability to give voice to those very truths, and I have tried to do just that.
I have o
ne final truth to leave with you. Every year we go back to the homeplace in Farmville, North Carolina. Driving by the old shacks, tobacco barns, and chicken coops always triggered an emotional response in me, but those were feelings that I couldn’t quite articulate or explain. Now I live just a few miles from that place, and it’s finally beginning to make sense. Maybe that’s why I had to come back.
From the porch steps of a dilapidated old house, all the eye can see is the leftovers and leavings of some pretty hard living. To the casual observer, there isn’t much around to smile about, but for the understanding soul, there’re more wonders than the eye will ever see, and there’s joy here, too — absolute and awe-inspiring joy. It took me years to figure out where that joy came from when, like so many ignorant others, all I could see was pain. I wondered, how did these folks manage to feel so happy in the midst of such difficult living? What did they know that we spoiled folks today can’t seem to understand? And then it came to me. Came to me loud and clear, and I thanked God for the blessing. Granddaddy stepped into my consciousness one day and gave it to me straight up, and it made all the sense in the world. Yessirree, all the sense in the world.
I reckon that it’s good, so good to be faithful.
It’s plain comfortin’ to know that you got you this one
who doesn’t mind at all, not the least little bit,
of catching you when you fall, or steadyin’ you when you stumble
or remindin’ us always that we ain’t nothin’ but human
so we’d best to be humble.
And then, then when them times come down oh so hard
And them days come to call that sho’ ’nough get too tough
I still got me somebody
who loves me — yes, loves me
No matter what!
I reckon it’s sweet, so sweet to just know
that all I can see ain’t all that there be.
And these lousy old folks round here that I see,
sure gonna get ’em, all they got due ’em,
and thankfully, it ain’t up to me to study up how,
how to give it straight to ’em.
Oh, ain’t it good, so good to be faithful
’cause it a wonder, yessirree,
that someone done thought of someone like me
to give me all this here,
this here that I got.
And then went to figurin’ a tree in that spot.
And look at that flower, that beautiful flower
right in a spot that needed a flower,
and that same one will love it, well enough don’t you see?
To send down the rains in a joyous spring shower.
Mercy, ain’t it good, so good to be faithful
’cause I know it won’t be long
till I’ll hoe my last field beneath the hot blazin’ sun
and still it won’t be over.
It will be WELL DONE ! WELL DONE ! WELL DONE !
Oh, ain’t it good to be faithful
’cause there sho’ been some times,
some of ’em pretty darn bad
when a little bit of faith was all we colored folks had.
But baby, I can tell you, tell you how it’s been true,
that it’s good to be faithful. I know it, I do.
It’s just good to be faithful, so good,
Lord, let me tell you!
Acknowledgments
I would like to acknowledge several people who contributed to this project. First, I would like to recognize my original publisher, Summerhouse Press, which first appreciated the merit of my message. Second, I would like to thank the wonderful team at Little, Brown and Company who appreciated the possibilities, shared the vision, and then worked so hard to make an author’s greatest dreams come true. A special thanks goes to Jonathan Greene for the artwork that adorns the cover. He is a generous soul, and his creative genius has been a blessing to this book. Finally, I would like to thank Carroll Greene, Dr. Patricia Stewart, and Dr. Barbara Fertig of Savannah, Georgia, for their love and support. Also hats off to my agent, Carol Mann of New York, New York, who held my hand and assured me again and again that things always work out just the way they are supposed to. Thank you, one and all.
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