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Not sure how well most know me, but you might know that I’ve struggled for quite a while in selecting a faith tradition that fit my expression of worship. For many folks this is a tradition passed down, but my path to worship has been a twisted trail winding through brilliant meadows of belief and deep dark forests of doubt. Like air, my belief has always been there but some days its harder to breathe than others.

In high school and before, faith was belief in a butt whooping from mom if I wasn’t up in time to leave for church. My memories are faint, the moments more felt than visual images remembered. I do recollect half block walks to the corner store in Santa Ana, California. Once there I drooled over the candy, usually settling on a Nestle Crunch. That was my chocolate of choice, when I had the cash. I never seemed to learn the lesson that chocolate melts when it comes into contact with heat as low as say, um, 98.5 F. I’d invariably put the chocolate in my pocket after paying for it and head back to church.

At some point during the service, after we had stood and sat for maybe the 10th time, I’d slyly slide my hand into my pocket as I sat and fish around for the contraband. Of course there would be nothing left but goo and I would draw back chocolate covered finger tips. Quite yummy, but less than satisfying.

I can remember being around seven or eight and going to my first Sunday Bible school lesson. It was just my brother Curtis and I in the class. I remember it was in the basement of a small brick church somewhere in the suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri. Though there must have been lights, the replay in my head has nothing but shadows cast everywhere. The Sunday school teacher was telling me something about the consequence of not obeying God. He decided to break it down for us and use a fly buzzing around the warm basement to illustrate his point.

After warning the fly to leave him alone several times, he eventually swatted the fly with a rolled up paper. He then rolled the round brown head perched atop his meaty shoulders back to us and smiled. “You see, I told this fly to stop bothering us and he didn’t. You see what happened to him.” My eight year old mind struggled to frame the moment. I looked at the teacher bewildered. Had he translated his ultimatum into fly language? I mean how was this poor fly to know the mumbling uttered from his lips were signs of imminent danger for his larval progeny? As I saw it, he murdered that poor fly plain and simple and he was going to H-E- Double-Hockey-Sticks for it. I clearly wasn’t going to take advice from this guy.

Then there were the college days. I did an internship in Michigan and decided to investigate Islam. I got a Quar’an and began reading from the beginning. I attended Mosque regularly. I prayed pretty close to five times a day. I switched my diet and became a vegetarian. I gave up smoking. I was doing it all the way. I had never been happier and had never felt closer to God. My life felt like an expression of God’s will and it gave me so much joy. I studied both the Bible and the Qur’an and was amazed at the power of Abram to birth three religions through his devotion to God. I was drawn to Islam because they were decidedly about practice and worship through actions. Be it on the street talking or in the community working. There was something about it.

Once school started, studying history and constitutional law replaced verses about Ishmael and Isaac. My everyday life no longer allowed me the luxury of living like a monk and I eventually fell away from Islam. That phase passed and I went back to the Church, eventually, but I could not find comfort. Whether it be the dress or the show, it was hard to feel honest in my worship. It was even harder to accept Christianity in its fullness knowing that this religion was used as the crowbar that pryed my forebears from their drums and their lands. This religion was used as cover to affirm some of the darkest deeds done by man; to man. The list counted populations and countries from Brazil to Jamaica, Ghana to Jamestown as prey and reduced centuries of rich traditions to slavery and welfare. Yet, I yearned for it. My mother had delicately planted that seed, filled with desire and love for something greater than myself. This was her family heirloom, and she had passed it on to me.

Then I came across the Courageous Church. I went initially to support my sister. But I found myself in awe. While I sat waiting for the service to start, a dj came on stage and began spinning. Puzzled, I wondered if he knew that service was about to start and prayed that he didn’t play something inappropriate. He didn’t. As it turned out, that was part of service. Folks were dressed in all manner. Some wore jeans some were more dressy. They came as they were. Not how they wanted the world to believe them to be. I was intrigued.

President Barack Obama said in a speech on race that Sunday morning was the most segregated hour in America and he was/is correct. This is when our hidden bias’ both Black and White dress up in their Sunday best demanding homage. We oblige by surrounding ourselves with those that look like us, talk like us and know, even unconsiously, the “proper” color of the Creator. Imagine that. This church was equally comprised of Black and White members, who not only shared the same service, but were warm and gracious in their greetings and conversation.

Pastor Shaun is younger than me and I’m 40. Yes, you will have to pray over that if you are old like me but that’s another post altogether. He said something during the first service that struck me. He was discussing the urgent need for us to get involved in the missions Jesus had undertaken. Specifically, he was dealing with hunger, you can check out the church’s work initiative at http://www.theywilldie.org. But he said that, “We need to feed these folks, they don’t have to accept Christ, we just need to feed them.” That sold me. No agenda. Genuine love for others.

Service is short and the emphasis is not on Sunday, it is on living and working during the week to carry out the mission Jesus came to complete. And moreover, to “do ye greater things.” I’m excited about church again and no, this is not your mama’s church.