Baptist Church in Indianapolis

This morning, Laura and I decided that we would attend a Missionary Baptist church – we didn’t (and still don’t) know anything about that particular denomination, except that its adherents are predominantly African American. Visiting them seemed like good training for our immersion into Mozambique.

Our first option was Mount Moriah Missionary Baptist Church: 2349-51 Keystone Ave, Indianapolis. It took us about 30 minutes to get to approximately the right area of town, and another 30 minutes to realize that we couldn’t find this mystery church.

Those last 30 minutes of driving around opened our eyes to a lot of poverty in the United States – especially in the neighbourhoods where African American churches are located. Either we don’t know the same breadth and depth of poverty in Canada or, at least, it’s more hidden in high rise complexes of public housing.

Our second option was Greater Prince of Peace Missionary Baptist Church: 1962 Columbia Ave., Indianapolis. It was a bit easier to find – we found it about 20 minutes away from the neighbourhood where Mount Moriah wasn’t, though the two neighbourhoods were similar: very narrow paved streets without curbs; old and poorly-maintained housing with wood siding, often unpainted. Broken windows were commonplace.

We arrived five minutes after the time posted on the wooden sign on the lawn, but were still the third and fourth people to arrive. We were greeted warmly at the door by some folks assigned to do so, and again inside by “Sister Johnson”, a lovely lady with a 17-month old little girl in tow. The leaders had us singing before the pianist arrived, and reading scripture before the preacher arrived. By 30 minutes into the service, most people had walked through the door: perhaps 40 in all; all were African American.

We would have liked to take a picture inside the tiny church, but were sensitive to the worshippers whose lives we were entering: we wanted to be received as participants, not as tourists visiting a museum display.

The choir was very “Baptist” in its passion – loud and enthusiastic – though the tuning wasn’t perfect and the first soloist sharp and nasally. The last time we heard singing like that was at the Khongolote church outside of Maputo, Mozambique! It’s fascinating to see African culture in the United States – realizing that these aren’t the sons and daughters of immigrants, but of people kidnapped out of their villages for the slave trade. Some may have come from Mozambique, though my impression is that the descendants of slaves don’t typically know from what country or tribe they have come.

The congregation was much more reserved than the choir. A few people clapped; some called out in response to the preacher or choir. Most sat relatively still and listened.

The preacher’s message, though it lasted 30 minutes, was a simple, one-point thesis using heart language. He spoke of “expecting the unexpected”, and talked about how everyone has fallen on hard times at one time or another – like having the electricity cut off, or receiving an eviction notice. He said that those of us who haven’t just need to keep living, and we will. Everybody said amen.

Despite the readily-apparent poverty of the congregation, an offering was collected three times: once for “mission” (probably inner-city work), once for the general fund and a building fund, and a third time as a gift to the preacher. The men were also reminded of their $10 per month “obligation”, and the entire congregation was reminded several times of the $25 “requirement” for the Pastor’s anniversary fund. Their poverty certainly didn’t restrain their sense of generosity or duty to the work of God.

The church finally let out at 1:35pm – two and a half hours after its scheduled starting time. The congregants had to rush home for lunch: evening worship was scheduled to start at 3:30pm.