I was in North Carolina, at a interdenominational weekend retreat run entirely by volunteers, when I heard it for the first time in ages.
It was barely audible above the shouting of children --
the squeals and laughter bubbling from the volleyball courts into the cafeteria windows. But it was there:
the rhythm of heavy boots bringing back the sound of laughter following a shrill whistle piercing through the air like lightning.
This is what learning sounds like. I remember.
I remember when I was eight years old,
the children’s pastor and leader of Junior Church was Minister Neal.
He was a goofy, stern man the size of a boulder, and he thudded like a tank through the hallways of our church.
Once, when I needed to get his attention
I got close enough to tap him on the shoulder
I tapped hard to try and see whether he had any soft at all.
I thought he was made of rock.
We begged to be sent to his Junior church: the banners hanging like a jungle
above our heads, reminding us that we could be anything
the sound of our children’s pastor’s laughter. Adults needed appointments,
but we did not. And even once when he was in grown-up meeting,
all it took was a gentle knock on the door, a peek around the corner,
and he was off calling, "Sorry. We’ll have to reschedule.
I have to see someone else about a very important matter.
It’s about a treat. It’s about a new ABC bible verse. It’s about a finished book of the bible — one book further than last time?!”
He visited every Sunday school classroom, knew every student by name.
He spoke to us like we were scholars. Artists. Scientists. Athletes.
Musicians. And we were
My world was the size of a crayon box,
and it took every color to draw him.
My world was the size of his Junior Church room. It was a tall as I could stretch my fingers, thinking, “Please!”
Let me be the one to respond to Minister Neal.
Let me be the one to show him what I know.
Books of the Bible.
Matthew. Mark. Luke. John.
Acts.
Romans. 1 Cor. 2 Cor. Galatians.
Look how much I know.
He brought us guests and movies, clowns and candy, swords and a praise team and a petting zoo.
They set up the cages in the parking lot for our Hallelujah Festival
While we were still tucked up in the junior church room, unaware.
Rabbits and guinea pigs poked out their noses, but Minister Neal came to rest in front of the lamb cage.
He and the lamb considered each other for a long time. He asked if he was tame enough to go inside. The trainers laughed and told him he was plenty tame, but he didn’t know how to go up stairs. So he led him to the front of the fellowship hall. And when the doors slid open on the first floor, there stood Minister Neal in his polo shirt and slacks, with a huge grin and a lamb on a leash.
He plodded from child to child, and we stared, cheered, laughed, and shouted. We called to him, this group of city kids, the youngest asking “Minister Neal, what is that? Where did it come from?" He made us wonder. He made us question. He made us proud of what we had learned.
Books of the Bible.
Matthew. Mark. Luke. John.
Acts.
Romans. 1 Cor. 2 Cor. Galatians.
Look how much I’ve learned.
He taught us to share.
He taught us to listen when someone else is speaking.
And then, he let us go.
We were dandelion seeds released to the wind, he asked for no return.
We are saplings now with gentle hands.
The fashionista girl with bright cheeks and messy hairpins and big plans now leads Black Girls Rock in Kennesaw.
The boy with the glasses with the strong sense of justice and morality is now studying economic inequality at Georgetown.
The one who always carried her calculus book is now an computer engineer graduating from Xavier.
And me, the boy who spent four days a week in Ben Hill’s youth ministry is now a youth pastor at Bethel Atlanta. He let us fly.
So I find myself at the front of my youth group.
My middle schoolers run up to me and ask me so many questions
I pray for patience. For wisdom. To find a way to tame all the peculiar animals of this world,
to coax them enough to brave the trip from their cages to the front of the fellowship hall,
to see the doors slide open to my youth’s gaping mouths.
All the wild wonder.
They worry about everything.
They worry about what others think.
They worry about their grades.
They talk over one another until I cannot hear them.
I tell them, "Listen. Listen to one another like you know
you are scholars. Artists. Scientists. Athletes. Musicians.
Like you know you will be the ones to shape this world. Show me how many colors you know how to draw with.
Show me how proud you are of what you have learned.
And I promise I will do the same."
Minister Neal, Abridged from Sarah Kay's Mrs. Ribiero