If there is one thing I know, it’s church. My mother was a choir director when my brothers and I were very young. Consequently, we got an extra dose of church due to choir or praise team practice. Late into Friday night, we would sit on those hard pews as the choir worked out the selections for Saturday’s service.
I knew, like all the youth, every crack and crevice of that old church. I knew every exit, every closet and every stairwell. There was no room that I had not thoroughly explored. During those years, it was a vast magical world. Magical because every so often strange things would happen.
I’ve observed the ushers in white collect the morning’s tithes and offerings while the congregation sang “You Can’t Beat God’s Giving”. So often the choir sang until screams rang out in the sanctuary. The spirit caused folk to rock side to side and lift their hands. And when they couldn’t take it anymore, they would wail. They would wail and they could not be comforted. An usher would have to lead them out of the sanctuary until the spirit turned them loose.
I’ve seen the sanctuary filled with white smoke when there was no fire. I was taught that it was the Shekinah. It meant the presence of God had filled the sanctuary. I’ve watched with fascination as the preacher preached himself into a fit. He seemed to strain underneath the weight of delivering the word of God. I recall Pastor Penn, a deep baritone, would sing his favorite song before every sermon. James Cleveland’s, “I Don’t Feel No Ways Tired”. Bellowing,
“I don’t feel no ways tired
I’ve come too far from where I started from
Nobody told me that the road would be easy
I don’t believe He brought me this far to leave me”
Yes, I know church. And I know God.
During my final two years of high school, I lived with my grandparents in Buffalo, NY. Life had become extremely complex overnight. I was faced with all the dangers and obstacles that most inner-city youth are faced with; drugs, violence, crime, sex, etc. I was trying to find myself in the midst of it all.
One night, I prayed to God and asked him to reveal himself. I told him that if He didn’t, I would live my life on my terms. I didn’t set any parameters. I only asked that it be undeniable. I needed to know God was real.
A few hours later, around 5 am, someone called the house phone, which lay directly beside my Grandmother. She answered the phone, at first concerned, and then irritated when the caller asked for me.
“Robert. Robert! It’s for you!” my Grandmother yelled with so much disagreeableness that I swore I would slap whatever fool thought it was a good idea to call the house phone this early. Everyone knows you don’t just call the house phone all willy nilly.
“Hello.”
“What do you want?” The caller asked in such an agitated tone you would have thought I’d woken him from his sleep.
“What? Who is this? You…you called me.” I responded confused and groggy.
“Its Paul. What. Do. You. Want?” He replied with increasing annoyance.
“Bruh.” I had to pause and collect myself. I wasn’t known for my patience or gentleness in those days. “Bruh.Yoooouuuuu called ME. What do YOU want???”
“Robert. What do you want?!?!”
“What in the world is…”
“Robert, God has been bothering me about you all week. He would not let me sleep until I called you. I have to work in a few hours. WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT???”
I felt the world shrink in that moment. I had communicated with the spirit or my conscience my entire life. “Robert, don’t do that.” “Robert, you should apologize.” “Robert, don’t say that.” I very rarely headed that voice. It was as if, in frustration, the voice stepped out of my head and spoke through someone else. It is very strange to hear the prayers you prayed in your bedroom answered through a man in another city. I felt very small and I’ve never really felt alone again.
Paul was my Mom’s friend. He was in that choir that I was telling you about. That morning, Paul and I had our first of many conversations. He prayed with me and he went to sleep. I spent the rest of the morning trying to wrap my mind around what had happened.
I don’t attend church much nowadays. I have my reasons. Reasons I know are valid. But that’s a story for another time. I’m like an Old Testament prophet. I only show up in church to teach and rebuke. I’m only slightly joking.
Anyway, for the past few years my relationship with God has existed primarily in the place we found each other. I’ve developed a rich and complex relationship with the God of the Universe, The Most High God, within the four walls where I lay my head at night. Our relationship is lit. And though he is called by many names, He never did tell me his. So I call him the Bedroom God. He doesn’t seem to mind.
That’s where my allegiance lies. That’s who I worship. That’s my truth. All praises due to the Bedroom God.
By the way, my name’s Robert. But call me Rob. I look forward to meeting you! We’ll talk more soon.
