At Bethesda United Methodist Church
Alexandra
They walk in the light; they ride out the storm. And they are leaning, always, on everlasting arms. The music of the Bethesda United Methodist choir illuminates the little church even on the rainiest Sundays, and I find myself awed by the faith that surrounds me.I have always wondered about faith. When I was younger than I can remember, I was baptized in Trinity Episcopal Church. The pictures show my mother wearing lipstick and my father in a suit as the three of us find ourselves up at the altar, beside my godmother, a southern Baptist, and my godfather, a non-practicing Jew.
"Does it count if neither of them are Episcopalian?" I would later ask my father.
"I don't know," he replied. "I'm not Episcopalian either."
I was puzzled.
"Then what are you?"
I would soon discover that my parents weren't really anything. Growing up in China's Cultural Revolution, they had been forbidden from having religious identities. However, they wanted their American-born daughter to have the option to explore.
Baptism was only one step towards God-I began my Catholic education in second grade. My first day of school started with an Our Father. The student body drew a collective breath and recited the prayer, the phrases worn as smooth as marble. I opened my mouth without saying anything, and then closed it, frozen and panicking. Everyone knew something I didn't.
Even after I'd learned the prayers, I remained aware that I was not like the rest of the students. I did not look like them, and I would not grow up as they did. I struggled trying to comprehend the Immaculate Conception, and they struggled pronouncing my last name. I wanted to be like them, but I wanted them to like me as I was.
Over time, my classmates learned my name and my story, and soon became my closest friends. I would read with them in front of school Masses, feeling proud, like I had learned to belong.
I did belong-but did I believe? It was in high school that I found myself in the little white building of Bethesda United Methodist. I was a classical pianist; they sang gospel. I couldn't play gospel, but they really needed a pianist. And so, a heritage hymnal took its place besides my Bach and Debussy. I became the accompanist in the oldest African-American church in Southern Maryland, my fingers nervously following the notes of the sheet music. They laughed, embracing me and singing until the pews shook. Alexandra became Sister Alex. I did not look like them, and I had not grown up as they had. "But isn't it beautiful how you can come in and praise God with your music all the same?" Pastor Beverly would shout. "God is good, all the time!" And then the whole congregation would say "AMEN!"
As my confidence grew, the music came alive. "What a fellowship!" they exalted. "What a joy divine, leaning on the everlasting arms." I followed them with the piano, realizing what lit up the voices of the choir. It was not family or history, but faith.
Today, the question I posed to my father so long ago is reflected on myself: what are you?
I am still building who I am every day. I am neither Episcopalian, Catholic, nor United Methodist; but the same power brought me to all of these places, and I will trust in it wherever I go. I will walk in the light, and ride out the storm. And, this Sunday, as I lead in to the first notes of "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms," I will feel perfectly content.
***
A composition in Ryken High School, December 2014.
