On Zion's Hill

by Anna J. Small Roseboro

  She opens the door at the end of the hall, steps out into the sunshine, stops and stands on the deck leading to the stairs down to the campground. She looks up into the sun and imagines the Son. “Hallelujah!” Then she looks out over the grounds of Zion’s Hill.

  It’s Second Sunday all right. Streaming from every direction, the Saints are showing up and showing out for the Lord and for one another. From the cottages on the hills, frilly-dressed little girls and bow-tied little boys skip in front of their parents, adorned like Easter morning. Ladies’ hats of all shapes, sizes, colors and embellishments flutter in the light breeze. Men’s hats tilt jauntily, shading skin colors from ginger to clove. Teenagers trip along in shoes that will be pinching toes before the wearers reach the tabernacle. One pair of T-strap heels barely supports the girth of a woman who turns to lock her trailer door before merging into the stream.

  Parading up from the parking lots, townies arrive, swiveling their heads to take in the panorama of sights and sounds. From the tabernacle loudspeakers boom the organ prelude. The throb of “We’re Marching to Zion” wafts across the grounds. Angie turns toward the parking lot, hoping to spot Ken so she can be down at the bottom step to meet him when he gets there. No Ken.

  “Good morning!” comes from behind her. “Scuse us, please.” A dorm mate taps Angie’s arm, signaling her to move aside so she and her family can get to the stairs.

  “Sure. Good morning!” Angie moves aside and asks, “How’re you all doing? Isn’t it a lovely morning?”

  “It shore is, praise the Lord. We doing just fine, too.” A whiff of floral cologne and a wham of spicy aftershave assail Angie as they pass her. Stepping briskly, eager to descend the stairs, they join the undulating throng.

  Ken still has not arrived. Angie peers down towards the parking lot trying to decide whether or not to head down that way to meet him, or just go on over to the tabernacle and find a seat. It’s going to be crowded in there. Maybe Ken has decided not to come after all. They must have gotten in late last night. Excuses buzz.

  Suddenly her eyes behold a vision of loveliness in lilac connected to a stocky, sturdy man in a deep charcoal shark skin suit. A flash of green. Envy. Then Angie remembers what she’d seen earlier. She tips her hat to a little saucier angle. Her mirror had told her she is looking quite fine this morning too. Squinting in the morning sun, she glares down at the couple. Why, it’s... it’s Thia. It’s Thia, dressed like a fashion model. She’s holding tight to his elbow. What? He has on a lilac tie! That must be Melvin. They glow together. Angie chuckles, “Thia must have forgiven him.”

  The man Angie assumes is Melvin gently guides Thia to the firmer surface of the walkway next to the dorm. No matter how carefully she walks, her spike heels will be punching into soft ground in the parking lot and the dewy grass between the lot and the walkway.

  The lady in lilac looks up and calls out. “Hey, Angie! You’re Angie, aren’t you?”

  Angie nods and glides carefully down the steps, curious that Thia recognizes her. Thia notices the puzzlement. The lady looks just as lovely in lilac as she had in navy. Green again.

  “How’d you know I’m Angie?” she asks holding on the stair rail, turning at the bottom to meet them.

  “Aren’t you the girl in the ice cream stand? Ken’s been talking about you all week. He said to watch out for you.”

  She wonders what Ken has said about her, but replies, “Really?”

  “Yes, I’m Ken’s sister, Thia.” Looking like she’s won first place in a beauty contest and her escort is the Mr. Universe winner, Thia continues, “and this is my boyfriend, Melvin. Isn’t he handsome?” Melvin blushes a little, and stands just a little straighter. He’s only an inch or so taller than Thia’s five feet six or seven inches. It’s hard to tell with the high heels she’s wearing.

  “Why’re you standing out here? The ushers are gonna give away our seats.”

  “Our seats? What’re you talking about?”

  “Ken said he was coming up early to get in to save you a good seat. You forget?”

  Angie breathes a sigh of relief. Ken didn’t forget. He’s here already. Must have gotten here while Angie was still inside primping. She’s glad she took the extra time. Reassured, Angie nods, accepts the firm elbow Melvin extends to her, and joins the two of them walking as quickly as they can in the fancy heels both ladies are wearing. But they soon have to slow down behind the crowd now thickening on the walkways nearer the tabernacle.

  Standing in line, still holding Melvin’s elbow, Angie looks around him to answer Thia’s earlier question. “Yeah, I forgot Ken said he’d save seats. I thought he wasn’t coming.”

  “Aw, girl. You don’t have to worry about my brother. You know the expression. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him from seeing you today!” Thia rejoinders, and Melvin confirms with another nod.

  “Really? You’re just saying that,” Angie exclaims, wondering if her insecurity is showing.

  “No. I’m for real,” Thia affirms, as they advance and stall behind a group waiting to be seating by the usher at the side door. “Like I said, he’s been talking about you all week.”

  Now Angie blushes. She also feels a little odd. It’s the first time all week she’s arrived early enough to enter the tabernacle through the side door during the organ prelude and has not had to wait outside the back door until after opening prayer.

  Thia teases, “Yeah, Ken told me that when you saw us together Thursday night, you thought I was his girlfriend, and you were jealous.”

  Angie feels Melvin’s forearm tense. He remembers how ticked Thia was Thursday. Melvin relaxes when Thia acknowledges, “Melvin had to work, but he apologized with flowers.” She looks at him with such tenderness and adds, “He’s such a sweetheart.” Melvin returns an equally tender look. Hmmm, Angie thinks. A mutual admiration society, and I’m not in one. A lime green flash. Envy.

  “Right this way,” the usher invites with open gloved hand, gesturing for the trio to follow him.

  Angie’s eyes scan the nearly full tabernacle and lock on to Ken’s. They smile “Hello”. He stands and points to three seats next to him. Melvin takes over. Silently signaling the usher that they have spotted a place to sit, Melvin leads the two ladies to the seats Ken holds in the center section of the tabernacle about ten rows from the front. Ken remains standing, allowing Melvin to direct Thia to the fourth seat from the aisle. He follows her, taking the third, leaving the other two for Angie and Ken. He nods Angie to the second seat, steps in front of the first seat, and sits.

  All settled in, Ken leans around Angie to greet Melvin with a handshake and then reaches for and holds Angie’s hand. Oh! He lets their clasped hands rest on the seat in the space between them, his gentle grasp loose enough for her to withdraw it if she wants. She doesn’t.

  Sitting here with Ken both excites her and eases her mind. The way he’s set their hands between them, not pushing or pulling, doesn’t feel awkward at all. She could get to like this. She’s comfortable, but wondering what’s next. Then movement draws her eyes forward.

  Up front, from the room on the left side of the platform, a parade of five robed ministers enters and walks regally to assigned seats in front of the choir. Angie notes Thia’s nod of approval. The ministers apparently have consulted and decided that purple will be the common accent color for the distinctive black robes they each wear.

  A tall, slender, but broad-shouldered young minister leads the way, donned in a narrow robe with tailored sleeves and a white clerical collar contrasting with his mocha chocolate complexion. Purple front panels sparkle in the light as he marches to the seat on the far right side of the platform.

  The minister immediately behind him is older, shorter and squatter. He picks up the purple in the three velvet stripes on the flowing sleeves of his flaring robe. The overhead lights reflect in the perspiration on his tawny bald head. Though awfully warm in broad velvet panels on his zippered front winter weight gown, he endures. The second Sunday morning of
camp meeting is more pomp and circumstancy than the first, and this is his fanciest liturgical attire.

  Three or four steps behind this second minister is Reverend Raymond Reeves, the speaker for the morning. He’s a big, big man, six feet-five or six weighing nearly three hundred fifty pounds. The impressively statuesque Reverend Reeves is the only minister of the five wearing a solid purple robe. It shimmers in the stage lights. Silvery embossed crosses grace the ends of the dark grey stole he wears. His short kinky haircut is trimmed neatly above his long Buddha-like ears. This third minister stops, lays down his Bible, and stands dwarfing the high-back chair in the center, reserved for the preacher of the hour.

  Reverend Doctor Rose, the only woman among the five, enters with the statuesque grace of the Queen of Sheba. Adorning her feminine cut black robe is a broad purple Kente cloth scarf; it hangs over her left shoulder and flutters as she walks; modest gold hoop earrings pick up the gold threads in the zig-zag African design. Her high anthracite cheekbones glisten, as black as the ink on this page, and are softened by the loose chignon resting at the nape of her neck. And below her flowing tea length robe, black patent sling-back heels click across the wooden rostrum floor until she reaches the first seat left of Reverend Reeves.

  Bringing up the rear, one of the senior ministers walks more slowly, leaning heavily on a carved ebony cane, pleased he is only a few steps from the preachers’ green room. He too is decked out in a black robe with a splash of purple. His more traditional style robe opens in a V-neckline to a stiffly starched white shirt and royal purple tie. While the other four ministers remain standing, this octogenarian shuffles to the seat on the far left, grunts and sits, setting his spiral cut black cane between his knees. The high polish on this accessory picks up the light when, gasping for breath, he leans forward, clasping his big-knuckled hands atop its bronze ball circle handle.

  DOM da, da, da, DA, DA, DA, DA. DOM! Few eyes linger on this elder statesman. They search for an unseen trumpet. Notes reverberate across the tabernacle. The choir director raises her arms high in the palm opened gesture for the congregation to rise. All rise. The piano and organ join the trumpet, and on the director’s down beat, the choir bursts into exultant praise, marching two abreast from the rear of the sanctuary down the center aisle.

  God of our fathers, whose almighty hand

  Leads forth in beauty all the starry band

  Of shining worlds in splendor through the skies

  Our grateful songs before Thy throne arise.

  Thy love divine hath led us in the past,

  In this free land by Thee our lot is cast,

  Be Thou our Ruler, Guardian, Guide and Stay,

  Thy Word our law, Thy paths our chosen way.

  At the cross aisle just behind where Angie and Ken sit, the lines split off to left and right aisles, march forward to ascend the steps on their side of the platform and reassemble in the choir stand behind the black and purple robed ministers.

  “God of Our Fathers.” This 1876 hymn originally written to celebrate the freedom commemorated in a 4th of July celebration in a small New England town today is sung by Negroes, many migrants from Southern cities and towns across the United States. These same lyrics express their longing for the social and political freedom called for in Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr’s. “I Have a Dream” speech given this summer in Detroit and all week here on Zion’s Hill in services celebrating the spiritual freedom available to all, following the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

  Refresh thy people on their toilsome way;

  lead us from night to never-ending day;

  fill all our lives with love and grace divine,

  and glory, laud, and praise be ever thine.

  The final verse brings the Saints to tears as they anticipate the final Sunday service of the 1963 Camp Meeting. However, it is on the perennial favorite, “Let Mount Zion Rejoice!” that congregants rise to their feet in euphoric exhortation to the God of their fathers about whom they’ve just sung.

  Great is the Lord! Great is the Lord!

  Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised!...

  In the city of our God!

  The sopranos warble, “Beautiful for situation…”

  The men thunder, “We have thought of Thy loving kindness…”

  All sing “Thy right hand of full righteousness…Let Mount Zion rejoice!”

  The tenors croon…”Walk about Mount Zion…”

  And the basses rumble, “Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider all her palaces...”

  The altos join emphatically, “That ye may tell it to generations following…”

  All sing jubilantly, “For this God is Our God, forever..”

  …. And in dramatic, pianissimo, the choir promises, “He will be our guide even to death.”

  Ken and Angie sit side by side, no longer holding hands because they too are swept up in the majesty of music, the longing of the lyrics, and the promise of that prophetic psalm. And each is content to wait until after the service to see where God will lead them in the relationship that seems to be blooming so tentatively in them both.

  ON THIS SECOND SUNDAY, AS ON THE FIRST, ANGIE WILL have to tip out before the service ends. This time though, it will not be difficult to know when to leave. Reverend Reeve’s delivery is a familiar style of Negro preachers across the country. His exposition begins in a slow and deliberate pace, acknowledging the men and women who share the dais with him, thanking the choir for their inspirational singing, and with heartfelt humility, expressing words of appreciation for being asked to speak at the forty-seventh annual Camp Meeting held on Zion’s Hill.

  Following the expected tribute to the Brothers and Sisters of Love who started the camp meeting, he names some of the current and recently deceased men and women who worked so steadfastly to keep the Association alive and well.

  Entreating a prayer in his rich, deep baritone, this Sunday morning preacher beseeches God to open his mouth to speak and to open the hearts of his listeners to receive what “thus saith the Lord”. Only then does he invite the congregation to turn in their Bibles to a passage he reads dramatically before announcing his sermon title and its connection to the 1963 theme.

  Five or six minutes after standing at the podium, the sermon’s rising action unfolds over fifteen or twenty minutes, expounding with general stories that demonstrate the minister’s knowledge of hermeneutics and eschatology, embellished with personal references to connect with the daily lives of the congregants. Finally, in the eagerly anticipated climax, Reverend Reeves pulls the chain. In a surge of adrenaline, he gushes forth a stream of rhythmically delivered allusions to well-known Old Testament characters and incidents relating to deliverance and freedom, and in this case, to service to others, linking his message to the 1963 theme.

  The sweating Reverend Reeves pounds the lectern with the flat of his massive brown hand, beating the time and reinforcing his key points. Both tempo and temperature increase. Congregants seated in the main floor of the packed tabernacle, the teens in the balcony, even latecomers in the standing room only sections of the overflow auditorium, merge into the fever pitched mass.

  In antiphonal style, the wound-up audience joins in the traditional cadence of call and response, affirming the truth of the message with “Preach It!” “Amen!” “Glory!” and “Hallelujah!” Some stand and point, “I know you right, Brother.” Others remain sitting, elatedly repeating words and phrases pouring forth in the time-honored pattern. A lady behind Angie shouts, “We havin’ church today!”

  On cue, Chris Smitherman jumps onto the organ bench. With writhing runs on the Hammond, the momentum intensifies; then…. diminuendo, a slower tempo, the preaching pace retards. Melodic music meanders and accompanies the denouement, falling action swoops and levels off to the resolution as Reverend Reeves reiterates for the listeners, the three key points of his sermon: “JOY comes from service: emulating Jesus, by serving Others, You will be blessed.”

  Silence. Then
soft, somber sounds simulate the whispering of the Spirit.

  Standers sit, the repeaters relax, and the teens on the balcony lean back, all emotionally spent from the exciting, interactive experience. Then, when the minister closes his Bible and slips his notes between the pages, Angie slips out. She too is exhilarated and challenged, having heard a prominent minister who not only exudes passion for the Word, but also delivers with panache a participatory and provocative sermon worthy of Zion’s Hill.

  SO FOCUSED ON THE DRAMA up front, few notice Angie leaving by the side door or Randy slipping out the back door. The two reach the ice cream stand about the same time, smile a greeting, and chat amicably about the sermon until Stella arrives to unlock the door.

  Behind them, across the road, other concession stand owners are lifting the wooden doors and locking them aside or above the windows through which they sell their tasty foods. Fragrant aromas and enticing apple wood and charcoal smoke will lure the crowds from the healthy spiritual food that enriched their souls to the tasty grilled physical food that will nourish their bodies. Today both kinds of sustenance are welcome.

  At the far left of this row of stands is the French fry shop where customers purchase paper cone cups of crispy potato strips sprinkled with tart cider vinegar. Next is the fish sandwich concession, the popular stand from which Ken has promised to buy her a sandwich this afternoon. Angie can hardly wait for this crusty delight which she plans to splash with lots of hot sauce for extra flavor.

  Next is the grill where customers converge for scrumptious lean burgers served on lightly toasted buns. Hot dogs warm on the new roller grill Liz had introduced last year, tired of selling crinkly hotdogs boiled tasteless in vats of water. From year to year, different concessioners attempted to vary the food options, but year after year, these four lead the way in sales.