Christ Our Redeemer African Methodist Episcopal Church meets in the Social Science Lecture Hall at UCI. So far, my pilgrimage has taken me to varied locales in Orange County and Long Beach, but it’s funny to think that the most memorable experience awaited me just minutes away.
My daughter (E.) and I put on our helmets, hopped on our bikes, and were at the meeting in no time at all. It’s ironic to me that the Church that is physically proximate to us is the least representative of the ethnic demographics at UCI, Irvine, and Orange County. OC is predominantly white, Latino and Asian. According to the U.S. Census, blacks and African-Americans make up less than 2% of OC’s (and 1.4% of Irvine’s) population.
When E and I walked in to the lecture hall (or the “sanctuary” as the pastor repeatedly christened it), we noticed that we were one of a handful of white people (actually, I’m half-Japanese, and E’s a quarter, but we look pretty white) among the 150-200 attendees. Where the choirs in the OC Christian churches I’ve visited have what I call “the token black singer” (sometimes the only African-American in the congregation), this one had a token white guy. Within a minute or two of sitting down, the pastor asked the visitors to stand up and introduce themselves.
“How did you find out about us?”
“When I go for my Sunday runs,” I said to the pastor and all of those assembled, “I often find myself directing lost people to your church. I thought I’d check it out myself.” He got a real kick out of this. Then he asked,
“Do you belong to another church?”
I was surprised by this comment, and answered, “Well…I’m sort of Mormon.” Usually I’m pretty forthright about my Mormon cultural identity, but it was intimidating to be confronted with this in a lecture hall full of theologically conservative Christians. In spite of our differences in race and belief, E and I were then welcomed with smiles and hugs and “it doesn’t matter what you are if you believe in Christ.” I smiled and shook hands and hugged back. We felt very welcome.
I asked E to write down eight things that were different between our sacrament meetings and this service. Here’s what she came up with in the first fifteen minutes:
Differences:
- band musicians (cymbols)
- visitors recognized warmly
- slideshow
- LOUD songs
- congregation doesn’t sing
- children pulled out during main meeting
- people agree while pastor is talking
- ask everyone’s concerns
E’s notes and her comment that “I certainly didn’t get bored” echoed the good Reverend Mark Whitlock’s words in an interview that “You won’t fall asleep at this service. There is an unbridled energy in our church.” I was amazed at the energy that pervaded the meeting–the organ was going constantly, even during prayers (though muted), the choir was belting out praises, and audience members would sometimes clap, shout out affirmation. I spent the first thirty minutes grinning with the infectious exuberance before my smile muscles tired out. But none of this matched Pastor Mark’s spirited enthusiasm.
While the choir was belting out a spirited number, with the congregation swaying and clapping in time, Rev. Whitlock knelt in a corner, head bowed deeply while two others prayed over him, hands placed firmly on his head and shoulders.
Mark Whitlock is a master preacher. His sermon, titled “Deal or No Deal!” focused on hypocrisy, illustrated by the story of Ananias and Sapphira from Acts 5 (who were struck dead in front of “Pastor Peter” when they lied to him about their incomplete contribution to the church community). I hate this story (and many Biblical scholars are troubled by it as well), and was half-aware of the fund-raising thermometer and the pictures of the church under construction placed prominently on the stage, but still was completely enthralled by his message and preaching style. He wove together a theological response to scholarly critics of the story (by focusing on the sovereignty of God) with a colloquial, emotionally-charged delivery. “I just stopped by to tell you that God is not who we want Him to be. I just stopped by to tell you that God is who He is!”
As he reached the climax of his message, his fervor crescendoed, and both he and many in the choir and congregation seemed to be caught up in a sort of rapture. I can’t for the life of me remember what he said, but I don’t think I’ll forget how I felt. I’ve felt deep peace, anger, goose bumps, enthusiasm and a lot of other emotions in religious environments, but this was visceral–adrenaline rushing, heart beating, blood boiling, spiritually rioting with the crowd sorts of feelings. When he finished, he was sweating and breathing hard, like a boxer returning to his corner after the bell.
The other element that impressed me about the AME meeting was its interativity. This was a conversation of sorts. The preacher was preaching, but he was getting continual feedback. Members of the congregation puntuated his pronouncements with “Amen” and “Oh Lord” and “Mmmm-hmmm.” When he wasn’t getting an adequate response, he asked for it: “Am I talking to myself?”
Finally, while we were all standing, he asked everyone who was saved to raise their hands up high.
I kept mine down, though I suspected what would happen next. I couldn’t bring myself to lie with my raised hand.
“Look around you. Do you see anyone with their hands down? Bring them down here.” He repeated this five or six times, and still I kept mine down, hoping no one would notice. No such luck. A tall man in his early twenties appeared behind me, smiling.
“Brother, I didn’t see your hand up,” he said. He took me gently by the arm, and the pastor called me and E to stand in front of the whole congregation.
I can’t remember what all the pastor said to me, but he played with the irony of my directing people to his church. “You weren’t sending people to that Mormon temple back there.” He acknowledged our nervousness and said that we would feel a miracle. Eventually he called the entire congregation down to the front, where we all crowded together, faced the altar, and prayed, with the Pastor as voice. Thankfully, E and I were only a small part of that prayer, which I think focused a lot on sacrifice and the new church building, still three months and a million dollars from completion. E was a trooper through this whole ordeal, and although we were both scared (my knees were trembling), I think I got more strength from holding her hand than she probably did from me.
After sending everyone else back to their seats, he asked me, “do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?”
I told him, “Me and God, we’re working things out right now.” He laughed and repeated it to the congregation. He sent me back to read scriptures and pray with one of the student ministers.
A little later, as the congregation placed their offerings in a basket and filed past him, he gave us big hugs. Actually, watching him interact with the congregation this way was very touching. He hugged just about every member–chaste light hugs and kisses on the cheek for the girls and women, big bear hugs for the boys and men. Some of the teens also got high fives.
When the meeting ended, E and I walked out feeling a little shell shocked. I was emotionally exhausted.
Needless to say, I’ve had some fun adventures and new experiences on my pilgrimage, but this one left the deepest impression on me. I have a deep respect for Pastor Mark and his little flock and a new appreciation for the African-American tradition of worship. But most of all, I now know what it feels like to stand in front of hundreds of people and have my private faith publically challenged. I’ve seen it on TV and read about it in books–now I’ve stood there myself.
I’d like to think that I passed the test.
