Singing with the Nazarenes

And listening to a healing

My sister-in-law, a musician and an all-around wonderful SIL

On the last night of my recent trip back to the homeland, I followed my sister-in-law and her mother, Mrs. Block, to a jamboree in the meeting room of a local Nazarene church. My sister-in-law is so musical, I’ve lost count of how many instruments she plays. Her latest effort is the mandolin, and she’s joined a bunch of hillbillies — some of whom are 30 years older — who gather to play the old stuff.

I don’t play an instrument, but I love singing those scary get-your-ass-to-church hymns, and Mrs. Block and I settled in at the back where I could escape quickly, I told her, if things got too churchy. Thank God, she laughed. Mrs. Block has a wicked streak that makes her one of my favorite women.

I didn’t recognize the first song, and as soon as it was over, everyone repaired to the repast set up by the church ladies. My goodness, but there was a lot, including all kinds of special salads you save for church dinners like this one because the ingredients are a little fancier than your regular diet. I skipped the dessert table, which I now regret, but every day I was in Missouri, I ate three full meals of the size that would be one dinner and two lunches with leftovers back home in Connecticut.

At the counter groaning with food, there was no one to ask if you belonged to the church, who your people were, or even if you were there to cause trouble, so I got in line and was reminded that you will not eat such good cornbread as you will in the meeting room of a simple country church.

New Beginnings Church of the Nazarene embraces a theology that is similar to my own church of Christ, though they get to use musical instruments in worship service so maybe they’re a little loose and going to hell, after all.

I’m kidding. The band was down a few members (some were traveling, some were ill) but the music washed over me and on the songs I recognized, of course I sang along. And then one of the women in the band asked an audience member — an older woman who sat by her identically-dressed twin sister — if she wanted to say something, and the slight little woman stood up and talked about medication that was currently healing her, with God’s help. I couldn’t hear from the sinner’s bench everything she said, but it was sweet testimony. Her miracle drug was Prednisone, and she talked about it as if it had been placed in her hand by a loving God. Me? I hate the crap. It chews up my stomach and gives me weird dreams, but to this woman, it was a godsend.

The band was returning to the music when another woman at the front asked to speak, and began talking about her pretty significant and life-long health issues that included a terrible skin condition where her skin actually cracks “at the follicle level.” I had my phone but thought it would be rude to look it up. Her story included a lot of symptoms you might not want to contemplate as you’re digesting cornbread, but everyone sat listening.

And then she said she was watching “700 Club” and Bro. Pat Robertson said he was going to heal “a woman with blisters.” There at home, she raised her hands over her head and said, “That’s me!”

(Robertson is the guy who blames terrible weather events/plagues/red stoplights on gays and feminists. He’s done more damage than good, and here was this woman singing the praises for this worthless-as-a-tit-on-a-boar-hog faker.)

My church didn’t go in much for healing or laying on of hands. Let’s be honest. We didn’t go in for that at all, and the Nazarenes may have a similar discomfort with it. Had someone started up with that noise at the Fourth and Forest church of Christ, someone might have been a lot more proactive to cut the mic, but I watched and everyone sat and listening respectfully while the bandleader let her finish. Then he steered the conversation back to the music and then, eventually, the music itself. It was one of those beautiful moments of acceptance, and maybe even love.