Let Me Take You to Church

Let Me Take You to Church

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Welcome, welcome

come right on in. Don’t be shy now, this is Sunday service. Find yourself a pew, scoot on down if you have to, and let somebody squeeze in next to you. We’re about to have church the old-fashioned way the kind that'll make you stomp your feet, pat your knee, and feel something deep in your soul.

Now listen here we praise the Creator for what He’s done, but we worship Him for who He is. You better believe there's a difference. One is a thank you, the other is a hallelujah straight from the gut.

Let me tell y’all somethin’. In my grandmother's house, missing church wasn't an option. That wasn't a suggestion it was a law written in stone and hung up right next to the picture of Black Jesus with his Afro slicked back and eyes looking like he knew all your business. My grandmother was a Deaconess, and baby, when Sunday rolled around, we didn't get ready for church we stayed ready. Sunday was holy from sunup to sundown.

First was Sunday school where you sat stiff in those creaky wooden chairs while Sister Johnson, bless her heart, tried to explain Leviticus to a bunch of kids still thinking Psalms was spelled with an "s." Then came the main service, with all its standing, sitting, clapping, shouting, and trying not to nod off during the sermon. And just when you thought it was over? Nope. There was another service right after that. That’s right church was a full-time job on Sundays.

Now, my grandmother, Lord bless her, would always say, “If you ain’t got nothin’ to thank the Creator for, then thank Him for me thank Him for blessing me to help you.” And trust me, she helped everybody. Whether you deserved it or not, she’d feed you, clothe you, pray for you, and fuss at you all in one breath. That kind of unconditional giving? That stuck with me. I picked that up like an heirloom passed down in prayer.

But let’s be real. As a kid? Church was hilarious. We had our own church Olympics going on back then. We’d sit in the back pew, whisperin’ and gigglin’, placing bets “I got Sister Bernice catchin’ the Holy Ghost first!” and when she’d take off runnin’ down that aisle, wig tiltin’ and heels clappin’, we’d pay up in candy coins. And don’t even get me started on the offering envelopes we turned those into notepads faster than you could say “Amen.” We passed notes like it was communion, talkin’ 'bout Deacon Jones’ too-tight suit or how Brother Will’s toupee was doing the cha-cha mid-sermon. It's electric boogie woogie, woogie.

And the choir Lord, the choir. The way they used to march in, all robed up like they were walking through Heaven’s gates. They weren’t just singing they were testifying. They'd hit a note so high, you'd look around like, “Did Gabriel just step in the building?”

But let me tell you what stuck the most. Somewhere between the tambourines and the testimonies, between Sister Betty shouting “Yessss Lord” and the pastor sweating through three handkerchiefs, something sacred settled in my soul. It was in those moments, I learned how to feel the Creator not just hear about Him. I learned that joy and reverence can live in the same sanctuary. That laughter ain’t a sin and the Holy Ghost don’t mind a good chuckle.

See, it wasn't just about religion. It was about relationship. It was about how we showed up for each other, how we leaned on each other, how we danced through pain and shouted through struggle. We sang through sorrow and clapped through chaos. That was church. That was soul therapy.

So yes, welcome to service. Take a seat. The choir's lining up, the ushers got their gloves on, and the tambourine's already startin’ to rattle. And if the Spirit hits you, don’t be afraid to throw your hands up. Scream if you need to. Cry if it moves you. Laugh if it bubbles out.

Because in this house, we don't perform we praise.

And just like my grandmother used to say before the benediction:

“Don’t leave your joy at the altar take it with you. And if somebody asks why you're smilin', just say, ‘Baby, I been to church today.’”

Closing words.

So as we come to the close of this Sunday gathering, I want you to take a little bit of this joy, this laughter, this Spirit with you. Let it ride in your car, sit at your dinner table, whisper in your ear on Monday morning when life tries to steal your Sunday shout.

And I’ll leave you with a word from my grandmother Celestine a woman who didn’t need a microphone to be heard and didn’t need a pulpit to preach. She’d look you square in the eyes, lift that chin of yours, and say:

"Child, a soul that don’t bend to pray, gon’ break when the storm come."

That’s Celestine for you sweet as honey but sharp as switchgrass. So bend today. Bow in gratitude. Laugh a little louder. And when you walk out them church doors, remember: you ain’t just been to service, you’ve been filled.

Now go on and be a blessing, even to the ones who don’t see you coming.

Can I get an Amen?