The four of us walked together up the stairs,
down another hall, and into the main foyer of the church. A few people were
still sauntering around outside the sanctuary doors, gazing up at the outdated
photographs of new church members and posted announcements for different ministries.
They had the look of a foreigner, looking at all at a landscape so different from
what they were accustomed to, the same look as the women downstairs. Their eyes
were wide, slowly inhaling and exhaling through their mouths. One woman had her
hands clasped behind her back, her chin cocked to the side, as if admiring a
display at a museum.
Another
Christian was standing at the threshold of the entrance, holding a stack of
papers (I knew that they were the typed lyrics of hymns so we could follow along
to the music). He wore paint-splattered jeans and a shirt advertising a church
name- not the one with the red doors. One I had never heard of before.
“Hello,”
he said with a smile, handing all of us a paper. I nodded in reply and walked
in.
The
sanctuary of the church with the red doors is not very church-like. First of
all, there is no pulpit at the top of two small staircases, there is no
breakable ancient communion set, no heavy purple robes to put on. There were a
few rows of wooden pews, but they were in the back of the room and off to the
sides. All faced towards the middle of the sanctuary, so that you are looking
at the people sitting across from you, rather than the person speaking. The
organ resounded above from the loft in the back. At the front, there is a long
mural spread across the wall of different shades of browns and greens and
purples, interlocking like puzzle pieces. A wooden cross, painted white, hung
above it. It seemed to be the most normal thing around the room.
Chairs
had also been added, aligned like the pews, but closer to the front, between
which the speaker would stand. Every chair is different- some painted
aesthetically, others painted by mistake, some were dining room chairs with
mismatched cushions sewn on by hand, others were just metal folding chairs. It
was like a dinner party where the host did not have enough seats, and invited
the guests to bring their own. I guess a lot of people came to the normal
Sunday service.
All
of the people, besides the few stranglers in the foyer, had taken a seat in one
of the chairs. There were exactly seventy-five, and we were always told to fill
up the closest rows. I inched my way between the bodies and chair backs to an
open seat. A few snapped harsh remarks of “watch it” as I accidently stepped on
a shoe. Only a few talked to their neighbor. When I sat down, the woman to my
left was rubbing her face, then looking at her hand, as if trying to rub
something off. The man to my right appeared to be sleeping; his chin drooped
down to his chest. There was a horrible smell of cigarettes and human urine.
I
turned my head back, letting my neck rest on the back of the chair and my mouth
slightly open. I don’t really remember any of the other churches I have been
in, at least not the details. So, I like to think that every church has a
ceiling like the one with the red doors. At a first glance, it looks like there
is no ceiling, just a starless black sky extending into nothing forever.
Invisible wires were strung from the organ pipes in the back to hooks on the
wall in the front. Hanging from them, just a few meters above your head, were
hundreds of paper origami cranes in practically every color imaginable. When
the organ played and the pipes trembled with the sound, they shook the wire,
casting the birds into a convulsive flight.
Suddenly
the organ finished, and birds relaxed into a gentle sway. I heard the door in
the back close, and the Christian walked down the aisle. A women rose from the
pew where all the Christians sat, and he took her place as she continued up the
aisle and into the space between the two sections of chairs.
“Friends,
welcome. Thank you for joining us tonight in a celebration of thanksgiving.
Although we may not have much, the Lord has still blessed us with one special gift
tonight; the friendship and hospitality of fellowship.”
Her
name was Polly. She always organized these nightly services. Her head was small
and her legs were thin, but her middle bulged out unflatteringly from her
blouse. I had always thought she was kind, until the night I walked into the church
kitchen and heard her yelling at the volunteers who cooked the meal. She said
the soup was cold and the toast was burnt. I’ve never looked at her the same
way since.
“Now,
let me introduce you to an old friend of mine, who has willingly agreed to lead
us in worship. Please welcome Karin Hayes.”
Some
people applauded, but it was uneven and scattered, incredibly insincere.
A
tall man stood up from the pew, blending in with the rest of the Christians,
and began to walk towards Polly. His dark jeans and sweater hung lose on his
body, like he was just an awkward middle schooler. He carried an acoustic
guitar by its neck in one hand, and a Bible in the other.
As
he came closer to the lights, I was able to see his face more clearly. His
wispy hair was incredibly blond, almost white, blending in with his translucent
skin. He kept his eyes on his shoes until he reached Polly but when he looked
up, I saw that his eyes were dark and impenetrable. It was if he was a black
and white photograph.
“Karin
is a student, studying medicine. But he is a wonderful guitar player. I keep
telling him to trade in his stethoscope for a microphone.”
Polly
gave a short, pinched “ha!” and playfully slapped his arm. Karin politely
grinned back.
“We’ll,
I’ll let you have the floor now,” and Polly left him alone, the lone object
around a hundred and fifty strange eyes.
He
walked out of the light the front wall and brought back a wooden stool. Someone
had painted it with a light blue, sponge painted white clouds scattered along
the legs. He placed in the center of the rug, sat down, and strummed a cord.
“I
thought we would open with a song.”
His
voice was deep and raspy, almost inaudible. It startled me to hear something so
empty, yet see something so complete. I suddenly had some deep, compelling
desire to go up to him, press my face into his blond wisps, and smell his
shampoo, to wrap my arms around him and take in the odor of his wool sweater, a
mixture of laundry detergent and cologne. But I didn’t. My lingering smell of
homelessness would overpower his of a ritual and secure life. I couldn’t do
that to him. I couldn’t let those two worlds gain contact. They were too
different; polar opposites that reason ruled would never touch. And I have
learned it is always best to listen to reason. So I sat on my hands in my seat,
held my breath, and gaped at his unattainable reality.
“Feel
free to follow along. The lyrics should be printed on the handout you got at
the door.”
His
music was ordinary; it seemed to have no affect on me. But his voice was
somehow fuller when he sang than when he spoke. It was still breathy, but not
completely emaciated. It was as if he was singing into my ear, his breath
tickling my skin. But I could see him straight in front of me.
Weak and wounded sinner
Lost and left to die
O, raise your head for love is passing by
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live
The
woman sitting next to me sang along, joining in with the other separated voices
around the room. I could see a few across from where I was sitting had raised
their hands in praise. The man to the other side of me did not stir, a puddle
of drool beginning to form on the white scruff of his beard.
And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace and laugh on glory’s side
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live
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