Today, I was on Facebook, and I saw a video posted by my friend, Bryant. We went to the same Christian school for several years when we were kids. He has posted a video of him playing piano, and he started out a ten minute video of just his piano playing with the song “Consider the Lilies”. Two lines in, I was overcome with a wave of homesickness.

That song is my heritage. Listening to him play, I could close my eyes and picture the Tabernacle on a revival night. Sister Melissa would be playing the piano as people came into the church. People would be milling around, shaking hands, smiling, and greeting each other. The women dressed up…nice dresses, skirts, pantyhose, dress shoes, and pretty jewelry. Most of the men wore suits. Almost no guys wore jeans. Little boys’ hair was slicked down. Little girls wore Mary Janes and frilly dresses. People were generally happy.

The music at the Tabernacle was a very distinctive IFB style. Piano and organ music with a bit of bass guitar accompanied the congregation in lively hymns. They sang lots of hymns, and they sang them with gusto. I know absolutely every word of every verse of “Brethren, We Have Met To Worship”, and nobody sings that song like the Tabernacle. I know that Bro. Reid will have to testify for a moment before he leads the congregation in “Whosever Surely Meaneth Me”, because it’s based on his favorite Bible verse. Men all over the church will shout “Amen”. People sing lustily.

The choir sang wonderfully. I remember singing “When We See Jesus”, and knowing that at precisely the same spot most every time, Mrs. Mary Poland would be overcome and would stand up and shout. I knew that Mrs. Rosie would cry. I would tear up, and have to swallow real hard before I could continue singing.

When the youth choir sang, people got excited. I remember singing “This One Thing I Know”, and being full to bursting. I knew that when the girls’ trio got to the chorus of “That’s My Child”, they would sing the words, “He said that’s my child, He is forgiven. See my hands, my side and feet. With my blood, I bought his pardon. That’s my child, And he is free” and people would go nuts. People would start crying and shouting. Somebody might run around a little bit. People there got excited about what we sang about.

After the choir singing, there would be special songs. In my early days at the Tabernacle, I would have to lean forward a lot, because Mrs. Judy Payne sat behind me. She got real excited, and would jump up and shout. She was a big lady, and she waved her arms around when she testified. I had to lean forward, so as to not get hit in the back of the head. The day that I went forward and recommitted my life to God, I nearly suffocated in her bosom. She got a hold of me, and started praising God. She held on tight while she thanked Him, and I prayed for mercy. I loved her.

The songs that they sang there were a very particular kind of music. They weren’t hip, but they were real. The melodies flow in my blood. The words are knit into my muscle. My bones are built with the lyrics. “Victory In Jesus”…”The Old Rugged Cross”…”I Have Found A Friend In Jesus”…”When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder”. Like Pastor Jones, I cut my teeth on a church pew. I spent every Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, revival meeting, and any special celebrations in church. It is who I am.

Even though I’m happy with the reality that my journey towards freedom and authentic discipleship in my life has led me away from this circle of churches, I occasionally get homesick. I belong in a different kind of church now. I wouldn’t fit in at my old churches with my blue jeans and nose ring. Our doctrines and theologies might not mesh now. I love a rockin’ worship band. Contemporary songs like “In Christ Alone” nearly bring me to my knees. I’m not who I was and I can’t go back, but I love those people. They love God, and they are sincere. Their path in life is different than mine, but we love the same Savior. I love those churches. Sometimes I miss that distinctively IFB style of worship…the hearty singing, shouting, and running aisles.

I don’t want to turn around, but sometimes I look back.

Sometimes, I get homesick.