We knead each other because we need each other

I saw a woman kissing another woman today. The young lady leaned down to the grand old saint sitting in the pew and said, “Hey, auntie, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Okay, I freely admit, that was a cheap trick to get your attention. But I couldn’t resist; I grew up in a world where church was a non-contact sport, where even a kiss on the cheek for a beloved family member was something you just didn’t do in the sanctuary, especially on the Sabbath.

But a lot has changed since then. Today there were quite a few Black people in the congregation, including the woman who delivered the sermon. I’m pretty sure that when I first moved to North Carolina, you only saw white faces in this place, and you would never see a woman in the pulpit.

Still, I was quietly terrified. Because I always wear a baseball cap. Not just for vanity’s sake, but mostly because I don’t want the glare from my hairless dome to blind somebody. I can’t afford to pay their medical bills. So I usually go to the praise service and sit in the gym on “nice” folding chairs with padded seats. Nobody will complain about a baseball hat in a church gym.

But I didn’t know if I could wear it in the main sanctuary. I remember when I was a kid, having my head nearly torn off by a deacon as he snatched at the offending head wear. “Boy, don’t you know you’re in the house of the Lord?!” It wasn’t even the day of the Lord; it was a Wednesday and I was just passing through the sanctuary on the way to youth choir. But it made no difference; the laws of the Almighty are unchanging.

That’s how I was raised. And it has a powerful pull on the currents of my life that sweep me along. So as soon as I entered the worship area, I snatched off my hat as if there were armed sentries in place, waiting to shoot all offenders. Of course, this had absolutely nothing to do with the people around me. Everyone was kind, welcoming, considerate. You could feel the warmth in the air struggling mightily with my upbringing.

One lady was busily greeting people and spreading good vibes. So I asked her, “Umm, do I need to take the hat off in here?” I was already squeezing it nervously in my hands.

She smiled. “It’s entirely up to you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do you think that Jesus cares whether or not you wear a cap in here?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure He cares whether or not I get thrown out of this place!” Just as she was explaining the impossibility of that happening, the pastor’s wife walked in.

“Put your hat on!” she said with friendly be-yourself firmness. “Otherwise, no one will recognize you!” I didn’t want to lurk among them incognito, so I followed her godly admonition. I might defy a pastor, but never a pastor’s wife.

The service began and the first thing the pastor said was not an opening prayer or a call to worship. He began by saying, “When I came in here today, I saw people shaking hands and hugging each other and being a community. And I said to myself, ‘This is the kind of church where I want to be!”

I remembered how one lady had warmly squeezed my shoulder as she welcomed me, and that was when it hit me. We need each other. That’s why we knead each other.