There are some days in the life of an urban-dweller that defy simple definitions. They are the days that get catalogued into our minds to be recollected for a lifetime. It's on those days that we can't wait to get home to write, to debrief, to defragment our minds, to replay it again and again in our heads.
Sunday was one of those days.
As a musician, I find myself going through days and weeks of extremely diverse experiences. This past Sunday started early, waking up to the alarm clock before it was light and beginning to feel the stress of the upcoming day building inside my chest. I drove from my Montrose apartment to a
Christian Science church in the Galleria area. I was hired to sing as a soloist for their weekly service. I had never been to a Christian Science church before, and the only things I knew about it were negative comments I had heard growing up. I found the whole experience to be thought-provoking, dull, creepy, odd, mundane, and just a little bit...off. I stood there in my crispy suit singing to a stately room full of privileged, high-society intellectuals. They greeted my singing with mute reverence and gushed praise upon me at the conclusion of the service.
I drove away in my Hyundai, jamming to Reggeton to cleanse my mind of formality and posterity, and raced back to my apartment to have lunch with my friend Danielle. She had just finished singing at her Episcopal service and we traded shop stories from the morning. While slurping chili and catching up, somehow it came out that Danielle had never been to the
Rothko Chapel. I was shocked and slightly offended, so I whisked her out the door and down the street to the Chapel. While we were in the vicinity, we decided to visit the
Byzantine Fresco Chapel, then capped off our chapel tour at the
Chapel of St. Basil on the campus of the University of St. Thomas. We both were refreshed by the silence of these holy places, and even spent some time singing plainchant and hymns at St. Basil's.
We couldn't spend too long together because I had an afternoon commitment singing an Evensong service at
St. Paul's United Methodist Church in the Museum District. I have frequently served as a musical guest there, and I have much respect for the meticulous preparation of their choir. The service was sparsely but enthusiastically attended by prayerful congregants. We sang and chanted the words of Mary's annunciation, Simeon's prayer of departing, and the liturgical prayers that have been hallowed by two thousand years of repetition. Because it was All-Saints Day, the service was also honoring the "faithful departed" who had passed away during the last year.
I once again raced home to change clothes and jumped back in the car make it just in time for the Sunday evening gathering at my church,
Ecclesia. Standing amidst my pierced and painted friends and singing crunchy rock music was a welcome respite and stark contrast to the earlier activities of the day. I sank into my chair and enjoyed receiving a worship experience in which I did not have responsibility. Chris Seay played a video during his sermon talking about living life to the fullest; about looking at every life experience for what it can teach us and contribute to our understanding of the world. I realized the message was manifesting itself for me that very day.
After the Ecclesia service, I schmoozed and hugged and laughed and drank coffee and talked theology for a while, then finally my friend Ashley and I skipped over to the
Hobbit Cafe for dinner with old and new church friends. I got to know some new people and dished out some Rice U judgment on some Longhorns, Aggies, and Cougars at the table. I relished the time to spend with like-minded spiritual seekers and fun-loving urbanites. My stomach full of hamburger and fries, I said goodnight and drove back to my apartment.
The day still had many hours to go, because Sunday is the night I meet with my friend Gail for street outreach.
Emmaus Ministries is a ministry reaching male prostitutes, and once a week Gail and I go to the street corners and bars where these men plow their sex trade. We roamed the sidewalks for several hours and saw Andy, a longtime hustler, and we met James, who was dying to get some crack. Andy told me how he tries to separate his prostitution from the rest of his "normal life," because "otherwise I can't stop thinking about it." I tried to imagine what it would be like if everyone from my whole day were standing there with me right then. What would they think of this experience - the Christian Scientists, Danielle, the prayerful Methodists, the urban hipsters, the cafe waiters? Would they be repulsed? Would they be judgmental? Would they be overwhelmed by the brokenness?
Gail and I finally left the streets about 2:30am. We hugged goodnight and I dragged myself up the staircase and into my bedroom. I peeled my clothes off and collapsed onto my bed. With the lights out, I closed my eyes and I was bombarded with the day's images. It had been so full, so diverse, so complicated, so beautiful. I drifted into a heavy sleep, dreaming of the people and tasks of tomorrow. Another day. Another adventure.
Nancy lives in Kenya. She is 43 and married to a good man who supports her initiatives and they have 6 children. Two are in secondary school while the rest are in primary school. 