Margaret

Evans

tribes. And it seems to me that some people cling just as tightly – and irrationally – to their political animosities as we once did to those older tribal hatreds. Apparently, we just can’t help ourselves.

Which brings me back to church. Literally and figuratively.

We have all kinds at First Presbyterian. Conservatives, liberals, and everything in between. We may be mostly white, but we are multi-tribal. Yet somehow, we manage to come together every Sunday to sing, pray, and listen to the word of God. There is always a palpable sense of love in that sanctuary. And as far as I can remember, nobody has ever come to blows.

I am not trying to be a “Christian witness” here. I promise. I learned my lesson on that front long ago. All I’m doing is telling the story of one service, at one church, in a small town in South Carolina, where people with very different viewpoints came together to sing and laugh, clap and hoot, confess our sins and receive forgiveness.

I believe it’s a story of hope, and I needed to write it. Maybe you needed to read it.

Most of my friends and family members are not church goers. Some of them don’t even like Broadway musicals. I am not here to judge.

But whoever you are, dear reader, I hope you have some kind of sanctuary, somewhere in your life. A place where your heart is cracked open on the regular, and filled to the brim. A place where you can remember who you are – the beautiful parts, and the ugly parts, too – and know that you are loved.

And if that sanctuary should happen to host the occasional string band, pickin’ and grinnin’ through a sermon by Johnny Cash, consider yourself doubly blessed.