Another Quiet Act

It must have been 1972 or so the day I first went to a church service that wasn't in my own home church. I'd spent the night before with a friend, and went with her and her mother to their church -- Normandale Baptist. I remember everything about that morning clearly, because it truly was my first experience worshipping with a different congregation. I liked their music -- it was peppier than what the Presbyterians seemed to sing. Lots of piano banging, and as a student of piano I enjoyed hearing all the fancy embellishments that were so different than what I was used to.

At the close of the service, the minister announced that immediately following there would be a congregational meeting to vote on some new folks who'd asked to join. This, too, was entirely foreign to me, but was standard practice there, I suppose.

I didn't think we'd stay, but my friend's mother was keenly interested, so we took our seats in the balcony instead of filing out.

Several families were introduced to the folks who'd stayed. Among them was a black family, and as I recall, the father was stationed at the local Air Force Base. This too was foreign to me -- even today the most segregated hour in my life is that between 11:00 and noon, although most congregations here now have at least some minority representation, including my own.

But even as a 13 year old, I knew this was big stuff. You could cut the tension in that sanctuary with a knife.

The families, after being introduced, were asked to exit to a fellowship area while the vote was taken. One after another, unanimous votes for admission to the congregation were given. Until the last family's name came up for consideration.

I had grown up in a household where the worst offenses were rudeness or meanness, and had never once heard my parents or any of their friends utter any word or sentiment that could have been construed as racist, so the venom I heard that day was a shock to my system.

Needless to say, that family was not accepted for membership, and I remember going home later that afternoon with a heavy heart. I explained what had happened to my parents, and remember my mother saying she just thought it was dead wrong that a congregation should ever vote on whether a person was suitable for membership for any reason. As far as the angry words that were dripping with racism, she said she was sorry I'd had to hear that from people who should know better, and she sure hoped the Lord was listening.

This weekend, the body of Rosa Parks is coming to Montgomery for two days of public viewing, in the sanctuary that now houses the congregation of which she was a part on the day she refused to give up her seat to a white passenger on a Montgomery City Bus. That congregation, St. Paul's AME Church, has had many physical homes -- the latest of which is the former physical home of the Normandale Baptist Church that I visited and left from with a broken heart all those years ago.

I like that citizens of every color and belief and background will have the opportunity to pay their respects to her in that place, and I hope to be one of them. I also hope that I can somehow work my way up into that balcony where I sat when I first heard hatred made vocal.

There's something poetic about this, and I believe Mrs. Parks would enjoy the irony of this final quiet chapter of her presence in Montgomery.