The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion

I was sitting in church. It was in a large auditorium, not unlike the Masonic Temple where Voice of Calvary (Jackson, Mississippi) met for several years during my earlier years in Mississippi. Many of my extended family members were there, as well as church members from the church I have most recently belonged to, (but not attended very regularly over the past year, I must admit), Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Rev. Bailey, my pastor at Bethel AME, was in the pulpit, wrapping up the service with some announcements.

We’ll be starting a new adult Sunday School class, he said. It will be centered around The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion. There was no reaction from the congregation—no giggles or murmurs of surprise. Rev. Bailey closed the service in prayer.

Usually after the service, our pastor greets and hugs us as we leave the church; however, this Sunday, he came down from the pulpit, and came down the pew, hugging and greeting each person. When he got to me, he bent down from his height of 6’10”, hugged me, and then whispered in my ear: I want you to teach that class.

Okay, I said softly.

This was a dream I had a few nights ago. It was strange for obvious reasons, but it was also strange because I remembered it so explicitly. I never remember dreams in such detail. I had just finished reading a book called Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See, so I’m sure that had something to do with the subject. But why in that particular setting. As I said, I haven’t been attending church very regularly, and it’s been years since I attended Sunday School, much less taught a class.

I’ve struggled with not attending church, first feeling very guilty, then not caring, to where I am now—on a church sabbatical. I miss Rev. Bailey and the members of Bethel. I love them, and they love me...a lone white face in a congregation of African Americans. I’ve tried attending other churches. I can’t accept all the whiteness. I actually sat and cried at one of the churches I visited because, while I liked most of the service, I couldn’t be at peace in such a homogeneous surrounding.

I was reading just this morning from I Corinthians 12 and 13. Paul spoke so explicitly about the importance of the community of believers representing the whole of the world’s community. How has the church managed all these years to skirt the issue and justify a congregation of people who look and think alike? I’m sure I sound pious and self-righteous. (I admit that is a dark side of me.)

I think when I married Spencer and through God’s grace, made the choice to totally embrace his life and culture, something happened to me. First came brokenness—how could all this history and pain and suffering and oppression have happened at the same time that I was deciding what to wear and whose house to hang out at over a weekend. Then guilt. I’m sure I became patronizing as I tried to make up for the ugliness of white America. I was harsh and judgmental to my siblings who tried not to be offended by my accusations of racism. I finally settled into a more hospitable language of white privilege and prejudice. I love being at home in two cultures. It’s double the richness, double the angst; but it’s all good. I wish I could wave my pomegranate wand and make reconciled converts.

So where is all this going? I guess I’m wondering if God is nudging me back to Bethel—certainly not to teach a class on The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion, but to return to the embrace of fellowship. Or, maybe He’s going to lead me to China.