Exactly As It Should Be

He wasn't what I had pictured when I signed up to take classes at the seminary downtown this spring. My quest to dive into the Word was met with expectations of an old, graying, white man who would, most certainly, be the one to usher me into this deeper study and more intimate glimpse of God. I don't know where I came up with that generalization of what a Bible professor looks like, except to say that I am human and white and perhaps more stereotypical than I care to be. But, God has a sense of humor. And His sense of humor strolled into my first class to take attendance, set things up, and introduce himself before I realized that he wasn't the professor's assistant. He was the professor. Young, fashion-forward, articulate, Dominican Republican born - he was not old, graying, or white; not at all what I had expected; and not someone I had planned to accept teaching on Job from. What did this kid have to say about suffering? Seriously.

The main building, I was told, was erected in 1954. It was currently being used as the children's wing. This building back here was new, having been designed to match the original facade with its pinkish-red bricks and white wood trim, and was being used as the Family Life Center. To find the sanctuary, I was to follow this long corridor and take a right. The church was quite a bit bigger than I thought it would be. And, I got the feeling there was a lot of old money holding up the walls and keeping the ministers employed. My tun to the right brought me to a set of white, wooden double doors with small square cutouts at eye-level. Old school. Beyond them, the room opened up, revealing a cavernous room with lines of pews in neat rows from the front of the room all the way back. Huge windows on either side, all the way up the wall to a ceiling that seemed barely there, gave something for children too young to understand the message to count. I pictured myself sitting in those pews, my 4-year -old legs too short to reach the ground, counting the stained glass windows of our home church. It smelled the same, this church and my childhood church. And for me, smells resonate and swing open the floodgates of memories.

God and I huddled that first night of class at the seminary. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to listen to this young man - emphasis on 'young' - talk to me about the suffering of Job, and I confessed it to God right away. I recognized that my own pride and expectations were bogging up the channel, and I prayed that He would somehow break through that barrier so I wouldn't miss anything. And, as God always does, He came through. My young, fashion-forward, articulate, Dominican Republican -born teacher wasted little time in explaining why he was there. Job was a book he could identify with. He explained in few details but with much passion how a family tragedy had slammed his nice, neat theology headlong into his reality and what was left standing was what he decided to put his faith in. He worked his hands to illustrate points. His chisled facial features gave away what revelation had meant the most to him. He raised and lowered his voice, daring us to feel what he and Job felt all too well. And when class dismissed, I sat speechless. I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be, no matter what expectations I might have had. What was, was exactly what was supposed to be.

Ms. Lilly spoke quietly to us, surprised to find us where we had never been before. She, being one of the matriarchs of the church, told us she had been worshipping with the congregation since 1943. We asked in complete reverence if we had taken her seat, gathering our things in case we had, it being much more her pew than ours. "No, no," she responded. "I always sit three rows back. You're safe." She winked. Our group was a motley crew, to say the least. Ages, races, and religious backgrounds melted together in support of the one who had endeared himself to us. We were there to show support. "Where's the band?" my classmate asked in a hushed voice as the song leader hummed his pitch pipe, searching for the opening key. "No band. It's a doctrinal issue. They don't use instruments," I answered, knowing. I knew all the songs. Not just the words, but the melody and the harmony; the four part harmony. I grew up accapella. The verses and voice chords to "Just As I Am" and "Doxology" came flooding back to me; the rise and flow of the soprano notes that mix with the alto to create something that must be what heaven sounds like. I had lost that sound somewhere between what God had delivered me from and what God had delivered me to, and it sounded even more angelic than I had ever remembered it. The new song books were in the pew rack, denoting progression from what had always been to keeping up with what was now. I understood. So it was in my own life. But, I could bet there was some old closet tucked away somewhere behind the sanctuary that had the old song books stacked in neat rows, collecting dust, and preserving memories like the ones I felt welling up inside me. The words ever true, the music just as sweet.

It wasn't your typical seminary Bible class. I could tell that right off. My young teacher assumed we had read the text - the book of Job - and would stir up class discussions with questions like, "So, was the Satan in Job the same Satan in the New Testament?" And, all of us older, wiser students would fire off what we had been taught as children or what our professors had taught us when we'd gone off to Bible college. And, after a little while of talking, we would stop and wonder if anything we'd just said made any sense to anyone else because it suddenly made no sense to us. Upon dismissal, I would book it out of there to sit in my car and regroup, praying that the Lord reveal Himself to me such that I could explain it to my class the next week. I knew what I knew about God. I just didn't know why I knew what I knew. I had friends at work who would ask me about the class, wanting to reap some of the harvest of knowledge. I got to the point where I couldn't answer their questions about why the class had been so profound the night before. "What happened?" they would ask. "I don't know! It just got me thinking." And, then I would ask them, "Do you think the Satan in Job is the same Satan in the New Testament?" And, then off they'd go, sounding like the rambling idiot I had sounded like the night before at class. But, I started to look forward to Tuesday nights. I began to anticipating the challenge. I gave myself up to it, wondering what in the world the Lord was teaching me through this young teacher who had power-washed my expectations until all I could expect was to hear from God.

The communion trays were the same bright, shiny silver with the red velvet inlay that make the funny, reflective shapes on the ceiling if you have most of the lights in the sanctuary turned down. I had taught my nieces and nephew to watch for those reflective shapes when they were toddlers, as I had done as a little girl. We all, instinctively, look up to see them, even now that we're too old to be entertained by them. The lights were too bright in this church to see the shapes, but I knew they'd be there if the lighting was right. The progression flowed like I remembered, save for the redirection I had to give my fellow classmates who practiced communion differently at their own churches. "Sip the juice, replace the cup - all in one fluid motion." I have experienced many different rituals and traditions surrounding communion; different kinds of bread, different kinds of juice, some churches eat and drink together. But, the sentiment has always been the same. The remembrance has always been the same. The sacrifice honored has always been the same. I settled in to the sameness, feeling comfortably at home, looking for reflections on the ceiling, knowing that they were there, even if they weren't. Because some things don't change, no matter what else does.

For weeks, as class got started, my seminary teacher would dutifully listen to, write down, and pray for our prayer requests and petitions; sick relatives, lost jobs, marriages in trouble - all were laid at the foot of the throne of Heaven, in hopes that His great mercy would see fit to bat an eye at our troubles, burdens, and cares. And, one week, our teacher, himself asked us to pray for him. We listened as he gave us the run-down of a packed scheduled that only a working, seminary student can fathom that included sharing the pastoral duties of the church he had been attending since coming to seminary. We dutifully listened to, wrote down, and promised to pray for him as he attempted to climb this mountain of responsibilities. Then, the suggestion, by one of the students, that we make the trip out to hear him preach made its way around the room. Several of us agreed that a more marvelous suggestion was never made; our prayers in the flesh. We would go. We would listen. We would support.

Every good preacher begins a sermon with a joke, and my seminary class teacher was true to his calling. My seminary classmates and I sat stacked in pews, supportive, ready to hear how different our teacher might sound coming from a pulpit instead of a class lecturn. But, he did not sound different, perhaps an indication of the calling on his life by God. He wasted little time, presenting his message through the Word that he felt we needed to hear, mincing few words about God's children's tendancy toward self-absorption. And, somewhere between his last point and the invitation song, it hit me: this was exactly where I was supposed to be. Right in the smack-dab middle of a journey. I wasn't where I used to be, but I'm not where I'm meant to end up, either; just right here in the middle. I was bookend-ed, that Sunday morning; able to see where I had been - and suddenly overwhelmingly humbled by the foundation that had been poured long before I knew I would need it with a peep-hole into the future, feeling a little lighter having shed some pretty heavy expectations. Isn't it just like God to bring you through something that you didn't know you were in? And, isn't it just like God to use the most unexpected guide to help mark your journey and usher you into a deeper study and more intimate glimpse of Him?