Brother Rawls
Byron, Lois and I attended two services last Sunday. One was in a nice building on a nice street, with a grand piano, central air and a secretary. Katrina had certainly affected the congregation, and there was more than the normal amount of emotion during the service. The service finished, followed by the normal fellowship and coffee. It was nice.
Later, we three got in the car with our t-shirts and blue jeans and headed through the twisting back roads, past houses cut in two by huge fallen Louisiana pines, past the little shops now closed, and, strangely enough, past despair and tragedy, into the sanctuary of the Abita Springs Church of God in Christ, led by Brother Rawls.
Services began at 1 PM. In attendance were we three, Brother Rawls, an older couple, one set of children who might have been kin to one of the parishioners, and two ladies. We were a total of less than ten. And when Brother Rawls began to preach, with no notes, for over an hour and a half, someone else came into the room.
“Come in here, Jesus” we sang. No hymnals, no PowerPoint, nothing but Brother Rawls’ booming voice, now louder, now softer, as if he were his own hurricane of faith. He took our breath away, and set us right.
“Will the lighthouse shine it’s light on us?” we sang. We knew it would. These people, in the middle of the service, thanked God that He had sent we three into their congregation. There was no mention of their home church building, now slashed from roofline to floor joist by a pine branch. No mention of having to push shopping carts to go and get bottled water, since their area was one of the last to still be under a boil order. Not one word about the insulin that was denied them one state to the north, when they fled the winds of Katrina.
No. They shined the light of their own faith on us. They stood and told stories of how they depended on family to take care of their needs; how they prayed over the two dollars of rolled-up nickels that they were forced to use to buy ice which was supposed to be free.
The sanctuary of Brother Rawls’ congregation kept the despair and tragedy locked out for that small and sacred time. Children sang, women stood and witnessed, and Byron, Lois and I were humbled beyond words. Brother Rawls ministered to us, we three who had thought we were to help them. Brother Rawls stood up, on his one good leg, for two hours, and led us to a place that we had been looking for.
Jesus came into that place. The lighthouse shone it’s light on us. And Brother Rawls made us remember that there is a light in the darkness.
Later, we three got in the car with our t-shirts and blue jeans and headed through the twisting back roads, past houses cut in two by huge fallen Louisiana pines, past the little shops now closed, and, strangely enough, past despair and tragedy, into the sanctuary of the Abita Springs Church of God in Christ, led by Brother Rawls.
Services began at 1 PM. In attendance were we three, Brother Rawls, an older couple, one set of children who might have been kin to one of the parishioners, and two ladies. We were a total of less than ten. And when Brother Rawls began to preach, with no notes, for over an hour and a half, someone else came into the room.
“Come in here, Jesus” we sang. No hymnals, no PowerPoint, nothing but Brother Rawls’ booming voice, now louder, now softer, as if he were his own hurricane of faith. He took our breath away, and set us right.
“Will the lighthouse shine it’s light on us?” we sang. We knew it would. These people, in the middle of the service, thanked God that He had sent we three into their congregation. There was no mention of their home church building, now slashed from roofline to floor joist by a pine branch. No mention of having to push shopping carts to go and get bottled water, since their area was one of the last to still be under a boil order. Not one word about the insulin that was denied them one state to the north, when they fled the winds of Katrina.
No. They shined the light of their own faith on us. They stood and told stories of how they depended on family to take care of their needs; how they prayed over the two dollars of rolled-up nickels that they were forced to use to buy ice which was supposed to be free.
The sanctuary of Brother Rawls’ congregation kept the despair and tragedy locked out for that small and sacred time. Children sang, women stood and witnessed, and Byron, Lois and I were humbled beyond words. Brother Rawls ministered to us, we three who had thought we were to help them. Brother Rawls stood up, on his one good leg, for two hours, and led us to a place that we had been looking for.
Jesus came into that place. The lighthouse shone it’s light on us. And Brother Rawls made us remember that there is a light in the darkness.
posted by tomk at 8:10 AM
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