Читать книгу Proclaim! - Marcus George Halley - Страница 8
ОглавлениеI was glad when they said to me, *
“Let us go to the house of the LORD.”
Now our feet are standing *
within your gates, O Jerusalem. Jerusalem is built as a city *
that is at unity with itself;
To which the tribes go up,
the tribes of the LORD, *
the assembly of Israel,
to praise the Name of the LORD.
(Psalm 122:1–4, BCP)
FOR SOME, CHURCH SMELLS LIKE THE STRONG ODOR of slightly bitter church coffee. For others, it is the smell of burning incense. For much of my life, it was the smell of spray starch mixed with the sweet scent of pancakes that reminded me most of church. Sunday mornings throughout my childhood were for church, but even before we joined with the other saints who were “glad to be in the House of the Lord one more time,” there was a whole process of preparation.
It was a liturgy of sorts.
It began the night before when we’d set out our clothes. In my younger years the outfit was always a pair of khakis of various shades, a white shirt and tie, or a polo in the summer. The dress code relaxed a bit as I matured, for which I was grateful. While I am quite sure my brothers were dreading the next day, I was anticipating it. I fell in love with the whole idea of church and spirituality at a young age for reasons I am only now able to name. It might have something to do with a spacious “interior life,” which I actively cultivated as an escape from the complicated emotions of growing up with few models for vulnerability and the fear of being different.
Sunday mornings always came quickly. They still do.
My mom and I would rise early, shower, iron our clothes, and head to church while the rest of my family slept. After the first “traditional” service, where the hymn choir would intone plaintive renditions of “Father I Stretch My Hands to Thee” and “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah,” we would come back home to retrieve the rest of the Halley clan, luring them from their beds with fresh pancakes (and sausage links if we were feeling fancy). They would rise, often begrudgingly, and perform the same ritual my mom and I had hours before. After ironing clothes and eating one too many pancakes, we’d load up in the family car and head to church for Sunday school, followed by worship, and then stay for lunch.
