They Welcomed Me In Too

Two days after the Charleston racist slaughter, I made my way to the Greater Morris Tabernacle Baptist Church in Cordele, Ga.

The trip had been planned for a few days. Silas Vance had called me on Monday to tell me that the funeral for his wife of 49 years, Justine, would be at that church on Friday. We were fellow volunteers at Fort Benning’s Airborne Chapel.

The intervening massacre provided curious timing indeed, but deserved no further consideration, in this context. It was time to celebrate Miss Justine, as I called her.

Airborne Chapel serves two training centers at Benning — Airborne School and Officer Candidate School — so the church in Cordele had remained Silas and Justine’s home fellowship.

And their members welcomed me in on Friday.

The service was what you would expect. The white-gloved ritual of the funeral home staff. Silas — a strong, private, disciplined man who never spoke of Vietnam — warmly shaking our hands even as later, his hand would cover his face and he would close his eyes as they sealed his wife’s coffin to begin the service.

The frequent, joyful, insistent, patient music: “One Morning Soon,” “Order My Steps.” Reflections from friends, even of pre-Brown v. Board of Education school days, that brought laughter with the called responses. The pastor’s repeated theme, “Our dove has found a new beginning,” as he incorporated Noah’s Ark into his eulogy. (Curious, yes, but it worked.)

The improvised singing of “Soon and Very Soon” and “I’ll Fly Away” as we waited for the recessional to take its steady course. The journalist in me noted we timed out at 1 hour, 45 minutes — but this church understood that when you focus on eternity, time is an irrelevant and intrusive obsession.

The burial was quick in the heat, so we could get to the “repast” afterward. And there too, all were welcome for the food, the laughter, the family-to-family greetings and the one-on-one hugs. “Selfies at Funerals” might have caused derision, but almost everyone at the repast took pictures to remember the friends and family who gathered too seldom.

During all this, I recall only one fleeting thought of Dylann Roof, and it quickly passed. But of course, the much smaller congregation of Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston also welcomed him in.

No doubt it was curious to them that a young white man would join them at such a mundane gathering. But to their limited awareness, if he wanted to be there, they would set aside what minor suspicions they might have harbored; he was welcome.

Some would imply that they should have carried guns and had them ready when they saw Roof enter, but that was not how they treated guests. As Roof’s visit to the church extended, no doubt they thought their welcome, too, had created a small victory within a cycle of violence. Roof was welcome to join them for prayer, and their hospitality seemed to disrupt his racial hatred, though it was so deep-seated that nothing would stop his deed of terrorism.

(For an account of his harrowing attack, click here.)

I and a few white folks sat with Justine Vance’s friends and family for more than an hour, about three to four hours overall, welcome to join rather than stand apart.

I can write only of my visit, not his, and the beauty and joy of it. My visit ended with a reluctant departure, knowing as we always do at funerals, that the sweet fellowship of grief is not frequently replicated, so it will be remembered and cherished more than anticipated.

We can only be grateful for those invitations to share fellowship — whether at a funeral, a Wednesday night prayer meeting, or on a Sunday.

I read the indignance at the phenomenon of “black churches” and “white churches.” (For the record, in my case, the two chapels I volunteer at reflect the integration that marks the U.S. Army’s culture.)

Given the circumstances of Wednesday, if that is how you feel, be the change: Attend a black church tomorrow.

They will welcome you in.