While searching for pictures for this blog, I found this great artist named Santu Mofokeng, whose art touches on various social, political, and spiritual issues including the intersection of the sacred and secular and religious expression under oppression. His work mirrors some of my experiences in Philly. Check out this cool article on his work: http://www.artthrob.co.za/04june/reviews/dkrut.html.
This week, I participated in my first black (really mixed race due to the presence of myself and my teammates) gospel choir practice. When I arrived at the practice, I was ready for some life-giving time of pouring out my heart to God in community with my neighbors and church family. I must say that I was not disappointed. Everyone welcomed us with open arms and open hearts.
But there was just one problem. Let's just say that when my friends and I joined, the choir "just happened" to experience a sudden and dire rhythm problem. I don't want to be one to dictate cause and effect, but it seems as if we may have contributed largely to this rhythmic mix-up of sorts. During one song in particular, I was having a significantly harder time keeping the rhythm while singing (not to mention swaying) than those around me. Plus, my hands started to hurt from all of the clapping we were doing. I know that may sound kind of wimpy, but it's true. My hands just couldn't stand the test of endurance that the choir practice required.
I started to think more about the people around me who weren't having a hard time clapping on the beat, and whose hands probably were not hurting. It's likely that many of my fellow choir members grew up in the black church or at least in a neighborhood/culture where they experienced similar rhythms. Perhaps their hands were calloused from all of their hard physical labor, or even from clapping for long periods of time from a young age. Maybe they had an easier time because it had been part of their culture and being for such a long time.
I feel like I'm coming into my neighborhood like soft, unrhythmic hands. I hurt so quickly and easily at the things my neighbors likely experience daily. They are probably somewhat calloused to the experiences that make me feel anywhere from uncomfortable to distraught. I'm constantly trying to join the rhythms of my neighborhood, awkwardly swaying the wrong way by asking ridiculous questions or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
One thing I experienced with hurting hands at gospel choir practice, however, was grace. My fellow choir members were right there beside me to consistently model the right rhythm. They gently corrected me in love when I got it wrong. Isn't that how grace looks? In the same way, my neighbors consistently afford me grace. They answer my silly questions as if they are important questions that have been and should be asked by every neighbor. They lend me tools when I need them and keep my food in their freezer when mine breaks down. They treat me with dignity, even when I oftentimes stick out like a sore thumb. Maybe that's what being a good neighbor truly looks like.
