Today the Rev. Dr. Noel
came to preach at my seminary.
Black History Month.
SFTS Professor of Preaching.
Before the music began I sat in the back brooding over issues
of discernment: loyalty, role, institution, faithfulness.
Which one?
How long?
The man got up with kleenex in his hand.
I should have known right then...the humility in that prop.
We had watched a clip of Beloved--the one where Baby Suggs
calls the people into the wilderness.
Children laugh.
Men dance.
Women weep.
This was sacred text #1.
After wiping his eyes, he brought sacred text #2: The Transfiguration.
Illumination on the mountain top. Reality in the valley.
Something rocketed from his mouth
and cracked open the place between my ribs and stomach--
the place where the holy spirit lives.
I cried so hard I was afraid I might upset those sitting next to me.
The "nice white people" Lincoln hates
began to care-take in the ways they know how: hands on the shoulder,
offering of tissue, puppy dog eyes. If they understood the renewed baptismal
function of my tears, they would thank God instead of taking pity.
Sometime later over lunch with Marjorie,
as we talk about the death of putting pen to paper,
the death of speaking truth,
I realize making decisions, like getting messy in the valley,
leads to hard-wood crucifixes and empty tombs.
No matter what. You can die slow in silence
and watch your body (and friends) whither away in the process.
Or you can courageously turn it all over before heading towards
Jerusalem believing what the people witness in the valley
--commitment entailing sacrifice, not sacrifice de facto--
might spark a momentum that outlasts flesh and breath.
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