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As the nearly 70 people gathered in the church fellowship hall blended in reverent petition, I became transfixed in the words of the song. In that moment that hymn became a prayer -– for me, for those gathered, for the group we represented.  The last stanza especially still resonates with me this morning.

        Have thine own way, Lord! Have thine own way!
        Hold o’er my being absolute sway.
        Fill with thy Spirit till all shall see
        Christ only, always, living in me!

The right song at the right moment carries great power. It operates like an answered prayer. It can unify; it can heal; it can soothe; it can uplift; it can transform; it can shift the atmosphere. At a previous meeting, I was encouraged when the members who came from several churches and different backgrounds joined together to sing enthusiastically, “All Hail the Power of Jesus Name.”
 I am appreciating anew singing of the old hymns in my church’s prayer meetings, at Sunday service, at funerals. There is a reverence in their words that many contemporary songs just don’t seem to capture for me. When we sang “Blessed Assurance” at church Sunday, the words penetrated my early morning weariness and awaked in me a spirit of gratefulness.

This morning while meditating on the words to “Have Thine On Way, Lord” I decided to research its origins, and  I learned that the seeds for this song were planted in a prayer service. The hymn’s author, Adelaide A. Pollard, was experiencing “a distress of the soul” in 1902 when she wrote this song, according to a description from sermonindex.net.

“It appears that it was a period in her life when she had been unsuccessful in raising funds to make a desired trip to Africa for missionary service. In this state of discouragement, she attended a little prayer meeting one night and was greatly impressed with the prayer of an elderly woman, who omitted the usual requests for blessings and things, and simply petitioned God for an understanding of His will in life. Upon returning home that evening, Miss Pollard meditated further on the story of the potter, found in Jeremiah 18:3, 4:

“Then I went down to the potter’s house, and, behold, he wrought a work on the wheels. And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter: so he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”

Before retiring that evening, Adelaide Pollard completed the writing of all four stanzas of this hymn as it is sung today.”

What a blessing Ms. Pollard left us. Her song, which continues to be sung today by countless people, was put to music in 1907 by George Stebbins.  Listen to Mahalia Jackson or Mike Curb or this instrumental version. Let’s the hymn speak to you today.

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
      Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.
Mold me and make me after Thy will,
     While I am waiting, yielded and still.

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
     Search me and try me, Master, today!
Whiter than snow, Lord, wash me just now,
     As in Thy presence humbly I bow.

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
     Wounded and weary, help me, I pray!
Power, all power, surely is Thine!
     Touch me and heal me, Savior divine.

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
     Hold o’er my being absolute sway!
Fill with Thy Spirit ’till all shall see
     Christ only, always, living in me.

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“But now, O LORD, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.” Isaiah 64: 8

Related posts:

1. When a prayer becomes a song and a song becomes a prayer
2. Let’s exalt the Lord today
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

But then there’s the intruding dark reality that this 40-day journey brings. It will be fraught with all sorts of temptations already set to derail the trek up the mountain. It’s during this time we pause to recall our own mortality. For it is from dust that we came and it is to dust we shall return. (Gen. 3:19)  And in remembering, we repent and realize our dependence on Christ.

So while I anticipate landing that first step on another journey God-ward, I already lament the tawdry temptations and erratic failures that await to trip me up. The coffee aromas that speak to me and ask what will one cup hurt. The time crunches that push prayer to later o’clock. The irritable interruptions that will detract from my goal of peaceful days. And the weighted-eyelids that will shut at hours I’m usually awake, simply because I said I would spend the hour praying.  I know it’s not wise to declare defeat at the outset, but I’ve been this way before. To be sure, I’ll do my very best to honor my commitments but, like the prodigal child on his way home to his father, I am already rehearsing my forgiveness prayers just in case.

I haven’t settled on my list of do’s and don’t’s yet, but they’ll likely include giving up some television, meat, sweets, breads, coffee and chocolate. (I know chocolate is a sweet but it is worthy of its own food group in my mind.) Although some would argue otherwise, to me letting go of things is an important part of the process.  It proves how easily I replace my dependency on God with things that distract me from Him. During Lent, when cravings roar to be filled, I’ll swap their noisy emptiness with the Bread of Life and with attention to Christ’s unfailing sufficiency.  

But the 40 days are never just about letting go. It’s also about drawing near. So in addition to pulling away, I will also add to the season more dedicated devotional time, more prayerful considerations that make me fully present throughout the day, and a daily hour of more disciplined prayer. Why so much prayer? I read somewhere that we do everything else more than we pray. I’m guilty. The article said we even give better than we pray. I’m guilty there too.

So, I’ll start the trek with these words: Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My frailty is ever before me. My weaknesses torture and mock me. And yet, I press pass the failures, because the victory is not in my perfection; the victory is in the One who stands with open arms to receive me in whatever condition I find myself when I finally arrive. So in the words of one who eagerly awaits, “Let’s go!”

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During Lent, the Rev. Dr. Cynthia T. Turner, pastor of the Dayspring Community Church in Lanham, MD, will write about the “Righteous Mind” on the Soul Rhythms blog. Click here to read other pieces by Rev. Turner.

Related posts:

1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
2. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

That’s not what haunts me. It’s when she came out of the bathroom, approached my table, looked directly at me, ignoring my table partner, and said plainly and clearly: “Will you buy me a soda?” Startled, but without missing a beat, I firmly gathered up my fear, locked eyes tightly on her foamed mouth and said: “No.” She paused, shrugged her shoulders, mumbled “well then!” and walked out of the door. I then commented to my table mate that I knew I would pay for that with overwhelming guilt. And I was right.

What haunts me is how out of character my role in the whole scene was for me. The tone, the quickness, and the I’ll-show-you-two-can-play-that-game attitude. Here I am out minding my business, away from the nonstop demands of ministry with dinner and a movie, and somebody has the audacity to need something from me. Where’d that stuff come from? That’s not me.

After reflection, I think I know why. I’m just tired. Tired of folks asking me for stuff. Tired of saving everybody (not that I do that, but for drama’s sake I write it). Tired of being the one who listens all the time to everybody’s mess.  Tired of being asked to deal with stuff that folks can deal with on their own without me. Tired of giving when I don’t have anything left to give. Just tired. But the inner voice whispers in protest: I cannot afford to be tired. I’m a pastor. A minister.  A caregiver. And others are depending on me to be there when their crisis occurs despite any weariness and (God-forbid) personal crisis of my own.  (Don’t worry; I know the place from which that voice emanates and it’s not the Lord.)

Rev. Dr. Gina Stewart coined the phrase that gives clarity to my condition when she preached at the Hampton Ministers Conference a few years ago. It’s called charity fatigue. No explanation needed.  The person carrying the disease is bad enough, but the real danger occurs when folks who really need help can’t get it because the folks who don’t really need help have used up all the equity in us caregivers. It’s why we must be discerning earlier and not simply allow ourselves to reach the limit where whatever else comes along we say no.

Back to the situation. So my response really had nothing to do with this lady. She just picked the wrong person on the wrong day to need something from. It’s not her fault. It’s mine. None of us is without repentance. We should be there for each other, especially those really in need. And we should respond with compassion and grace.

I have continually prayed, repented and asked forgiveness and even asked God to send other chances my way to prove that I am willing to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty and clothe the naked.  My heart is true in that regard, but my actions spoke otherwise. And I know enough not to wallow in my shame but to go ahead and receive the grace of forgiveness that God promises when we ask.  

Perhaps had the woman asked my dinner mate she would have gotten more empathy.  Perhaps not.  But I do know this situation is a wake-up call for me to not become so empty that when true need shows up at the table, even if I don’t ask them to sit down, I can get up and buy a soda. Because, surely, there but for the grace of God go I.

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The Rev. Dr. Cynthia T. Turner, pastor of the Dayspring Community Church in Lanham, MD, writes occasionally about the “Righteous Mind” on the Soul Rhythms blog.

Related posts:

1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
2. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

Surely she had to scream during slavery when some slimy creepy body climbed on her belly to use her as a receptacle. I know she screamed then but not out loud. Or when she – in the name of survival – had to give her breast to nourish somebody else’s child, while her child lay home thirsty, craving her warmth.

Or when she busily moved around in the kitchen, keeping her back to her children so they could not see the leaky tears burn her face or hear her groan in prayer. They were unaware as they sat at the table chattering that the stove was cold, the ice box warm and the cupboards bare.  

Scream she did, but not out loud. Romans 8:26 says the Spirit intercedes for us with groans words cannot express.  

Thankfully, these horrific moments are bits of second-hand history for many of us. Our lives are generations removed from those oppressive days. But on the scream-worthiness scale, we’re right there. Today’s Black woman, like her internally screaming ancestor, has much for which to scream. Like when she begins remembering at 25 what happened to her at 5, when her uncle used candy to entice her to come near. She kept it at bay for two decades, but now the specter of the memories won’t go away and she’s afraid for every little girl she sees near any grown man. Not only does she try to re-suppress the memory, which she’s not even sure is true since it was so long ago, she now also tries to quell the scream.

Or when in the courtroom she sees her teenage son or daughter, whom she put to bed each night with thoughts of Morehouse and Spelman on her mind, now standing before the judge with hands and feet chain-linked between some other mothers’ children over something stupid. No more Morehouse, now the big house. She can’t scream in the courtroom, lest they haul her away, too, or think it’s her fault that her child turned out this way. So she holds it.

Or when she  arrives home early and finds her man in bed – her bed – with another man and he declares before her eyes it’s not what it looks like.  Her intention is to scream out loud, but nothing comes out.

As bad as it gets sometimes, rarely do we get to scream out loud. Throughout history, our survival and the survival of those around us have hinged on our postponing, camouflaging or suppressing the out-loud scream. No wonder we major in heart disease. This inward shout to human ears sounds like groans. Our saving grace has been in knowing that the Spirit speaks our language of groans and translates them into prayers according to God’s will. Our hope is in knowing that there’s always a groan – an inward shout – before the glory.

So when can a Black woman scream out loud?

Is it at 20-something when her childhood friend’s father blindsides her with a proposition now that she’s all grown up? Or is it when she has the dream career, dream house, dream car and dream appearance at 30-something, but wakes up to realize that the dream duped and deluded her by not measuring up to all that? Or how about when she looks around at 40-something and realizes her chances of ever marrying, experiencing childbirth, or even having a lasting committed relationship have faded with last year’s underbrush?

Can she please scream then? Or how about this: when she realizes she no longer has a clue who the man beside her in bed is, even though she has laid with him under the same blankets for nearly two decades. He’s a stranger to her and her to him. Or is it when her son starts acting like her daughter and her daughter starts acting like her son? Though she loves them just the same, can she scream out loud then? Or when she suddenly realizes the reflection in the mirror resembles her, but that person is 30, 40, 50 or 100 pounds heavier than she ever thought she’d be. Please, can she scream now!

These are glimpses into the real-life stories some Black women share.

And yes, there surely are those whose charmed lives may never have experienced such tragedy. Even now someone is standing up in protest to declare that all her days have been good days and all her decisions have been right. I’m not mad at you. Work it. But work it realizing that what the old preacher used to say is still true: “If tragedy has not visited you yet, keep on living, daughter.” All I ask is that you have compassion. Realize that if you scratch just beneath the surface of many of your sisters, there’s an ear-piercing, eye-squeezing scream waiting to get out.

I once heard a poet say “every woman needs a day.” I agree. So here’s what I suggest. Once a year, we take a day for a Black woman to scream. B-W-S-D. Black Woman Scream Day. Rather than sleep the pain away, we’ll scream. It’s a day to fill up your lungs, stretch wide open your mouth, shake your head side to side in fury, and let out a loud noise that shakes the very foundations of the earth.  

One woman screaming is plenty, but just imagine if we all got together in an abdomen-tightening fellowshipping exercise, like the wailing women of the Bible, and just let it all out. And I don’t mean to be exclusionary, so I invite all of our Latina and Asian sisters, Jewish, Muslim and Buddhist; White, Pacific Islanders, American-, East- and West-Indian; gay, straight and bi-sisters to join in. (I’m not changing the name, though. We unapologetically and unashamedly must take ownership of this.) Take the day off and scream. Scream for yourself and for the woman who cannot scream.

We don’t scream because we are weak or because we have lost it or because any of this has gotten the best of us. We scream in protest because we know that this is not how life is supposed to be. We scream because we have the strength yet left in us to do so. Because we have not been defeated. Our screams are not in despair, rather they push out new life, new hope. They declare these dry bones still do live and they cry out not just with breath, they cry out with a loud screeching ear-piercing noise to say to the world “though you thought I could not, or would not, today – maybe just for today – I can and I will scream, because if I don’t I think I’ll lose my mind.”

And afterward, at sunset or perhaps the day after BWSD, we will do like we always did: Begin weaving together the frazzled remnants of our sanity, gathering up the tiny pieces again, and putting it all back together so everybody and everything can be all right.

Can I get an amen?

  ²⁶In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. ²⁷And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God’s will. – Romans 8

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The Rev. Dr. Cynthia T. Turner, pastor of the Dayspring Community Church in Lanham, MD, writes occasionally about the “Righteous Mind” on the Soul Rhythms blog.

Related posts:

1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
2. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

Life can become like that – a bunch of half-empty efforts that appear and feel like a whole lot, but when truly measured, when the substance is weighed, it’s pretty unimpressive. Could it be all that busy-ness is an effort to fool not only others – but myself too – into believing that there’s a lot more going on than there really is. While they look good on paper, these titles, memberships, affiliations and meetings, are great camouflages – and poor excuses – for progress. They make good fronts, because they appear that something is happening, but actually, more often than not, like those bottles, they are just occupying space.

But there’s another factor here that hits close to home. How willing we are to accept the bottle and its meager contents? This became clear to me when I noticed on a particular Sunday how many parishioners were strolling into worship service 20, 30 or 40 minutes late. Considering the entire service is only 90 or at best 120 minutes, they are consistently missing out on a full third or nearly half the service. It’s the half-empty bottle syndrome. As long as they get some of the service, it’s appears to be enough. But is it really? 

I confess, as a preacher and preaching aficionado, when I visit other services, I’m guilty of plotting my timing so that I can show up at worship in time for the sermon. But can I call that worship? Can I say I’ve dined sufficiently when I show up at a seven-course meal just in time for the entrée and bail out just after the dessert? Can I say I’ve seen the whole movie when I missed the first 40 minutes? Can I say I’ve visited a certain city when all I did was sit around on a two-hour layover at the airport?

King David in his 27^th Psalm expresses a “one thing” mindset. While he had much to be thankful for, much to question God about, and no doubt much to petition God for, he declares that there’s really only one thing he desires. I don’t need 27 bottles of shampoos, conditioners and cleansers, I really only need one of each. And I don’t need a bunch of things to do, meetings to attend and titles to hold, I really need to weigh them against the rule of substance and when they come up empty, I need to let them go.

Now that I’ve tackled the bathroom cabinets, on to the closets. Do I really need 23 pairs of shoes and a wardrobe of three sizes? Ugh!

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The Rev. Dr. Cynthia T. Turner, pastor of the Dayspring Community Church in Lanham, MD,  writes occasionally about the “Righteous Mind” on the Soul Rhythms blog.

Related posts:

1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
2. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

Amani, my 5-year-old niece, whenever she sees me, will show me her scars from a fall at school, an injury at the park, or an incident from a week ago. The wound may be nearly healed and show no evidence of present pain. It may be covered over with hard crusty scab that has all but faded. But she wants me to see the wound and to see where she was hurt so that I can somehow empathize with her and feel her pain. And I do. I kiss it. I caress it. I put my hand where it happened as a way to share in the incident, even though I was not there, did not commit it, nor can I actually feel it.

What she’s saying, without even knowing it, is that she survived a bad thing and lived to tell about it. She’s showing that she fell down, but got up again. I hope I can remind her of that. That this thing is an example that even though you go down, you can get up again. And even though you have the scars to show it, they are not testimonies of defeat, rather they are testimonies of your survival despite the injury. Praise be to God that the scars don’t mean that it’s over, they mean I have survived.

That’s what Christ did. The resurrected Christ kept His scars. They were His identifiers, His markers that proved to the disciples, and Thomas specifically, that He was who He said He was and that He had been through what they heard He went through – and get this – He lived to tell about it. That’s what scars do.

Perhaps the most dangerous of scars are those we cannot see. The ones that hurt the heart, that strike the soul and that cripple the spirit. There’s no Mercurochrome, no bandage, and no boo-boo kiss that heals them away. In fact, their real peril lies in the fact that they are inconspicuous to the average eye; they require real discernment. And because they can be so easily camouflaged, they often go unattended.

Today I’m going to take time to tend to those internal scars, because they too help define the me I have become.

Lord, I have to thank you today for keeping the scars. When you revealed yourself to those disciples, you showed them the scars and that’s how they recognized you. You bared the scars. That’s where we nailed you. That’s where we pierced you. That’s where we attempted to do you in once and for all. And as we were doing that, you were all the while praying for us and making a way for us so that we would not be left to make our way to hell. All the while we were piercing you, you were going away to prepare a place for us to be with you. All the while we were slamming you, you were opening it up for us. And you have the scars to show it.

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Rev. Dr. Cynthia T. Turner, pastor of the Dayspring Community Church in Lanham, MD,  occasionally writes about the “Righteous Mind” on the Soul Rhythms blog. Click here to read other pieces by Rev. Turner.

Related posts:

1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
2. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

In case you don’t know, smh is the text-world shorthand for shaking my head. And that was all I could do when I heard this statement: “Men need to fellowship alone – women just mess it up.” That was the answer the president of a D.C.  Missionary Baptist Minister’s Fellowship gave this month when the issue of women joining the fellowship came up.

Yes, I did say D.C., as in Washington, D.C. Yes, this is 2010. Yes, he did say “mess it up.”

No, these are not primarily Southern Baptists; they are local African American pastors and church leaders from the D.C. metropolitan area who share fellowship with such national organizations as Progressive National Baptists, National Baptists, Full Gospel Baptists, Cooperative Baptists and American Baptists.  This justification was given in the nation’s capital, where we are surrounded by competent women who hold powerful positions of leadership in the federal, judicial, for-profit and nonprofit, academic and religious arenas – without messing them up, I might add.

Well, thank you, Mr. President. That clears up a great deal. All this time, I knew those excuses used to justify the all-male membership were not the full truth. I knew it wasn’t because everyone really believed that God could not (would not) call a woman. I knew it wasn’t that Jesus did not have any female disciples among the 12. And I knew it wasn’t because Galatians 3 was omitted from memory, neither was the myriad other examples where Christ welcomed and elevated women and where women furthered the gospel in both prominent and behind-the-scene roles. I knew you were way too smart for those to be the real reasons. So you can imagine the relief I felt when I heard the underlying cause of your longstanding rejection of women – they just mess it up.

I guess now I’m left wondering exactly what is it they are messing up?

Do they mess up your worship services? When they usher, teach, nurse, serve as missionaries, count money and preach the occasional women’s day, do they mess that up, too? Or are they barred from those duties and only allowed to, say, prepare the Lord’s Supper, clean and cook fish dinners (or breakfasts) for your fellowships?

To be fair, many of those who purported the strongest stances against including women in this fellowship have gone on to their (supposed) all-male glory in the sky. The unyielding remnants who hold fast to these views are referred to as Fowler’s boys, referring to the late Rev. Fowler, a longtime president who was the chief opponent of women. They are not nearly as numerous or at least not as vociferous as they once were, but the lingering impact of their viewpoint is evident by those who answer the all-male roll call each week.

Most member-pastors willingly confess outside the meetings that they are not in agreement with the anti-women stance, and are merely wedded to the Monday morning routine of the fellowship and the occasional preaching engagements they get from being a part of the group. By and large, they do not object to admitting women, they say, but it’s not their battle. Hmmm. Others are quick to point out that the convention has lessened its restriction on women in recent years. Now they say a woman could join, that is, if she receives 100 percent approval from all the male members. (The same is not required for male membership.) I don’t know any woman desperate enough to subject herself to that sort of scrutiny even if approval were guaranteed beforehand.

At any rate, being denied access is not a major concern for any women I know.  In truth, it never even comes up in our discussions. It just amazes me. It’s unfortunate. And it makes me shake my head. But at least now I can rest easier knowing that it’s nothing professional, rational or biblical; it’s just a whole lot of mess.

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1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
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It’s supposed to hold her  at all times so as to give the illusion that no obstacle is too big, no hurdle too high and no stairs too steep to ascend. That’s the sales pitch. But that’s all it is, because the reality is it’s broken and of no use until the repairman can fit taking a look at it into his overloaded schedule next week . 

I hate when things break. Especially me. I need to hold it all together at all times, not just for me but for the generations who preceded me and withstood far more hardship than I’ve known. And for the generations following who seem to cower under the slightest weight and discomfort. They need to see how I can hold up under real strain.

Also for the congregants I serve who secretly wonder at times if God is real. For those millions of nameless women whose backs are bent under the strain of trying to house, feed, educate and clothe an entire family for under $2.50 a day.  For the women whose bodies were violently entered and whose minds and hearts were raped of the hope that anybody cared.

And for the little children who can’t afford for the grownups to break. Especially for my 5-year-old great niece who believes I am invincible. I can’t break, because if I do who will lift all those folks?

Yeah, right. All those fine noble reasons aside, I don’t want to break because breaking hurts. And I hate that. But I also fear the fact that broken things aren’t of much use. They get put up on a shelf for later fiddling. They get wheeled in front of a TV until the next meal. They get left behind. They get swept up and thrown away. And even if they are glued back together, one wrong move or a bit of close scrutiny will reveal their cracks. Don’t believe the hype. Everything is not necessarily stronger in the broken places.

Truth be told, I have been broken, am breaking now, and most assuredly will endure breaks in the future. I’m publicly whole and privately fragile. I could never live up to always being the strong, independent woman I was raised to be, who refuses to crack under pressure, no matter how forceful. While I may still resist it, I no longer believe breaking – excruciatingly painful as it is – is the worst thing. It demands new ways of seeing the same old situation and it rejects the need for me to hold on to the got-it-all-together facade.

It’s the prequisite to Resurrection. And if what rises after the break is less heroic, less prideful, more authentic, more Christ-like and less self-centered than who I am now, then by all means, I will take the break. Bring it on.

Each Friday during Lent, the Rev. Dr. Cynthia T. Turner, pastor of the Dayspring Community Church in Lanham, MD, will write about the “Righteous Mind” on the Soul Rhythms blog. Click here to read other pieces by Rev. Turner.

Related posts:

1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
2. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

As we exited through the glass double doors, we noticed a little girl several steps behind approaching the doors. We both stopped our stride and our conversation to hold the door for her. She walked through both sets as if it were our duty, never even acknowledging our presence, never saying those two words that would have made our gesture worthwhile.

So I said it, as if to teach the little ingrate a lesson. “You’re welcome.” There, now we made eye contact. She walked ahead and I uttered other words I won’t risk including here given my title as clergy. Those are the same words, for the record, which my workout partner would not co-sign. With curt kindness, she brought me back to where I should be, something I both love and dislike about her.  

We parted. But that was not the end for me. I went through the day recounting the episode to a few other people. “Children today have no manners,” I said. “Her Momma should have taught her better than that. No wonder we’re as bad off as we are.” I blamed my feelings and my response on a 10-year-old who should have known better, and I justified my terse words based on her bad manners.

While it’s convenient to make the child take the blame for my uneasiness, the truth is it’s more about me than it is about her. Yes, she should have said thank you. But to allow her to change my mood grants her too much power in my life.

Even more importantly, had I known up front that she was not going to say it, would my actions have changed? I’d like to think not. I still would have held the door, still would have done what I know is the right thing to do, and still would have behaved as if my Momma taught me manners. My heart’s actions ought not be driven by the need for validation, gratitude, or reciprocity. And when they are, it says more about something lacking in me than it does about a little girl whose mind may have been lost somewhere else.

I will keep holding doors, letting people in front of me on the highway, and giving a person with one or two items a place ahead of me in the line at the grocery store. And if they acknowledge my kindness, good. If not, good.  

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Each Friday during Lent, the Rev. Dr. Cynthia T. Turner, pastor of the Dayspring Community Church in Lanham, MD, will write about the “Righteous Mind” on the Soul Rhythms blog. Click here to read other pieces by Rev. Turner.

Related posts:

1. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
2. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner
3. Righteous Mind with Rev. Cynthia T. Turner

Some churches, including my own, found a way to gather despite the back-to-back snow storms in the Washington-area. The telephone became a life-line for the church shuttered by the snow.

Some of my fellow Dayspring Community Church members were giddy on the line, thrilled that we would be praying together again. We prayed, read Scripture, sang songs and laughed, grateful to know that God was present with us and thankful for technology that allowed us to gather.

We were not alone. Others churches also found a spiritual respite in telephone conferencing, a method employed traditionally for business meetings. A pastor in Silver Spring, Md., remarked in a meeting that I attended, via the telephone, that more than 60 people called into the telephone line her church set up last Wednesday night.

Another pastor, Rev. E. Gail Anderson Holness told The Washington Post that she had ordered a teleconference number long before the heavens dumped more than 25 inches of snow on D.C. She put the number to use a Sunday when most worship houses were closed, and her church attendance swelled. People called in  from cities across the United States and from several countries.

“We had a global service,” said Holness of Christ Our Redeemer AME Church in Washington. “At one time we had more than 100 people on the line.”

I first paid attention to churches using dial-in teleconferencing services last month when a friend’s sister who was visiting from Nebraska told me that her church regularly holds its Bible study on the phone. Her commuting pastor leads the discussion from North Carolina where she lives.

Later, I heard on the radio other churches urging listeners to call in to participate in services. It’s impressive the lengths some church folks went through drign terh snw storms to stay connected to each other and to enjoy corporate worship. But, I must admit as uplifting as the teleconference was for our Wednesday night prayer meeting, it could not match the wonderfully spirited time we enjoyed this Sunday. Nothing is sweeter than being able to to greet each other face to face and worship God together.

What did your church do to stay in touch or worship together during the storm?

Related posts:

1. A perspective on snow
2. Seeking praying churches
3. Churches let go of past hurts