Chapter 14. Serpents and Camels
SERPENTS AND CAMELS
WHITNEY
As the woman led me up a flight of stairs to the balcony, she said, “Sorry to put you all the way up here. Most of our regular members have reserved pews. You don’t see it much now, but private pews were common in New England in Colonial times.
They were called box pews because they had short walls around them to keep out the drafts.
Families customized them with blankets and pillows, bookcases, things like that. ”
Reserved pews seemed like an outdated and exclusionary concept but, at the same time, I could understand the appeal of having a guaranteed seat.
Assigned seating would reduce the sense of competition for spots, and would enable congregants with adjacent seats to get to know one another better over time.
A seating chart would also be an easy way for church members and leadership to discern who was present at a service and who was absent.
The woman wasn’t done yet. She was quite the chatterbox. “The Old North Church in Boston has box pews. You’ve heard of that church, right? It was the one where the two men climbed the steeple with the lanterns to announce the arrival of the British? ‘One if by land, two if by sea?’”
I gave her a nod. Paul Revere’s ride and the start of the American Revolution were standard fare for elementary school history lessons.
We ascended to the next-to-last row, where she stopped at the end of the mostly full pew. Everyone there wore yellow visitor badges, like me.
“Here we are!” said my escort. “The congregation is so large that we’ve nearly outgrown this building.
The board is considering adding a second service to accommodate everyone.
” She shrugged. “At least you’re closer to heaven up here, right?
” She held out a hand, inviting me to enter the pew.
“Enjoy the service. Be sure to come to the Fellowship Hall afterward to mingle and grab a pastry and coffee. The raspberry streusel muffins are amazing.”
I slid into the pew, taking the last spot along the aisle.
By then, activity had begun in the sanctuary below.
A well-dressed drummer took his place behind the drum set.
Though he’d taken off his suit jacket, probably to prevent it from impeding his movement, he nonetheless wore a dress shirt and tie.
Same for the man who slid the strap of an electric guitar over his head.
A woman in a flowy dress stepped up behind an electronic keyboard.
Five women stepped into place next to them and picked up various handheld instruments.
A tambourine. An egg shaker. A pair of claves.
A wooden block. And, yes, even a cowbell.
The instrument took my mind back to the soft clang-clang-clang of the bell on the maverick cow in the Victory Garden pasture, the one with the itchy flanks.
Sawdust had a scratching post, of course, though it was made of sisal and intended to be scratched by him, not for it to provide a scratch for him.
I wondered if a manufacturer made scratching posts for large animals.
If not, maybe I could fashion one for the itchy cow.
I was always looking for a new crafty challenge.
Promptly at ten o’clock, the lights over the pews dimmed while spotlights over the sanctuary snapped on, like beams from heaven or a UFO attempting to abduct someone with its tractor beam.
A hush came over the crowd. All was silent for a few seconds before a side door opened and Devin Carmichael entered with long, athletic strides, his right hand raised high, fingers splayed. “Good morning, Redemption Fellowship!”
The crowd rose to their feet, applauding.
Following Pastor Carmichael side by side were two identical blonde women in identical long white dresses.
Bess and Tess. I wasn’t sure who was who.
The dresses gave them the appearance of innocent brides.
As the two stepped up to the microphones, the band launched into the first notes of a lively Christian rock song.
The congregation stood and clapped along to the music.
Meanwhile, Pastor Carmichael moved around the stage, not quite dancing but moving in rhythm to the beat, smiling and pointing to specific people in the audience, giving them their own personal wave or thumbs-up in recognition.
He even looked up at those of us in the rafters and arced his index finger in the air to indicate our rows.
He spread his arms to his sides in a gesture of welcome, then clasped them to his chest to indicate he was grateful we were here.
I could see how he’d been so successful in growing the church.
Despite the huge crowd here today, he’d somehow made every single person feel seen and special, including me.
When the first song wrapped up, the band segued into the just as lively but more traditional gospel song “I’ll Fly Away.” Bess or Tess encouraged the congregation to join them in song. “Y’all know this one!” called one of the twins. “Let’s hear you sing!” added the other.
My singing voice could best be described as having a nails-on-chalkboard quality so, unless I was alone in my car, I normally stuck with lip-syncing.
Today, though, it was hard not to sing aloud with everyone around me clapping and moving to the music and having their spirits lifted.
The pastor and the band made the service feel like a party.
As the song ended, Pastor Carmichael made a downward motion with his hand and asked everyone to take a seat so that his “beautiful wife and sister-in-law” could praise God with a duet they’d written themselves.
“Other than the band,” the pastor said, “you all will be the first to hear this song, which is titled ‘Morning Mist.’ But you’re in luck. ‘Morning Mist’ is being released for download and streaming as I speak, so you can listen to it again on your drive home.”
The Grace Notes launched into their song, with Bess and Tess alternating on harmony and melody. It was a moving piece about sin and redemption, and quoted Isaiah 44:22: “I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist. Return to me, for I have redeemed you.”
The singing continued for a full half hour, alternating between Christian rock and gospel songs. A few of these songs were sung solely by the Grace Notes. For others, those in the pews were again invited to join Bess and Tess in raising their voices.
When the music ended, Pastor Carmichael made some announcements about the upcoming events, then began his sermon by quoting Titus 2:14.
“The translation of this verse varies slightly depending on which Bible you consult, but my favorite is in the Amplified Bible. Here’s what it says, folks: ‘He gave Himself for a chosen and very special people.’ Folks, you—” He stopped here to point again at the crowd like he had earlier, this time starting at the upper balcony and moving his finger back and forth until he was pointing at the first row.
“You are those chosen and special people.” He raised his arms skyward. “‘For we are God’s masterpiece.’”
One of the twins, presumably his wife Bess, put her microphone to her lips. “Ephesians chapter two verse ten.”
“That’s right!” He punched the air for emphasis. “We are masterpieces. Works of extraordinary skill and artistry. Matisse, Monet, Picasso, da Vinci, and van Gogh might have painted a few pretty pictures for us to enjoy, but God created us as living masterpieces of flesh and blood.”
His sermon, though admittedly entertaining, seemed more intended to feed the crowd’s egos than their spirits, but perhaps I was judging him too harshly. After all, this was the only sermon I’d heard him deliver.
His speech was short and, immediately thereafter, the Grace Notes sang the hymn “O the Riches of My Savior” as the collection baskets were sent around.
As the basket was passed my way from the other end of the row, I realized I’d been so focused on using my time here today to learn more about Devin and Bess that I’d forgotten to make out a check to the church.
When the person next to me handed me the basket, I held up a hand to the man waiting at the end of the row to take it from me.
I rested the basket on my lap as I dug through my purse for some cash.
I dropped a twenty-dollar bill into it, noticing several exceedingly generous checks facing upward in the basket.
They seemed to have been strategically placed so others would notice the names and amounts appearing on them.
The largest was for two hundred and fifty dollars.
I handed the basket to the volunteer, and the pastor wrapped up the service with some final reminders and a short prayer.
“See y’all in the Fellowship Hall!” He raised a hand in goodbye and headed down the center aisle.
The Grace Notes launched into another lively Christian rock song as the parishioners followed the pastor out the door and the pews emptied.
By the time I arrived at the Fellowship Hall from my seat in the remote reaches of the church, most of the people were halfway through their coffee, pastries, and conversations.
The white noise of a hundred voices or more created a buzz.
The hall was tastefully appointed with dozens of round tables in the center and taller bar-style tables along the perimeter, though many people chose to stand in small groups.
The children and teens had their own areas at the rear of the expansive room, and were hanging out with their peers.