On Easter Sunday 2009, I was passing through Chicago, after visiting our eldest daughter C who was then studying in Urbana-Champaign 2 hours south of Chicago. When I turned around the corner after coming out of my hotel in downtown Chicago, there was a long line of people waiting to enter a Presbyterian Church. People in the line were wearing overcoats, topcoats, leather jackets, dress shoes, high heels, … I saw two and only two pairs of sneakers, and no down jackets. A well-heeled congregation, obviously, and fitting for the so called Magnificent Mile. All whites and no blacks as far as I could see. All trim and looking well. But I was not attending service here.
I decided to attend Sunday worship service at the Afro-American Rock Church on the other (west) side of Chicago, where C had participated in a service project some time earlier. So I took the Metro train.
The train was clean and free of graffiti. The few passengers were mostly Afro-American. I noticed that as the train travelled west, there were more and more run down, deserted buildings and broken windows. There was a mother with two girls in pretty dresses, who looked like they were going to church. So I wasn’t too worried.
I got off the station on North Central Street and walked three blocks south.
The Rock Church was in an old school house at a street corner.
When I arrived, the congregation was finishing their communal breakfast of eggs, bacon, waffles, mashed potatoes and milk. There were 200 people. Other than 3 or 4 families who were white, everyone was black. I was the only one who was neither black nor white.
After the breakfast, the tables were cleared and put away quickly. Chairs were set up for the service. The singing was loud, powerful and really good. Some people were singing and dancing spontaneously. A choir led the singing. The pastor also sang, really well.
Because this was Easter Sunday, most people put on their best clothes. There were some boys wearing suits that looked brand new, and much too big. Boys grow up quickly. I could imagine their parents buying clothes for them one or two sizes bigger than they really were, hoping that the suits would last a little longer. There were quite a few people who seemed sick or overweight. Some were walking with crutches or otherwise with difficulty.
The Rock Church on the West side and the Presbyterian Church on Magnificent Mile seemed two totally different worlds. Both are American. Yet it seems the two does not ever meet, let alone mix and melt together.
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