Free The Presence by T. Davis Bunn Page A

side to side in a harmony punctuated by loud amens. “I pray that I will be where the Lord wants me to be!”
    â€œGod is a GREAT God!” Catherine leapt up and shouted out, making TJ jump and shrink back in his corner. She lifted her hands and danced toward the center aisle, caught up now in the spirit of praise and worship. TJ heaved a silent sigh and sought safety in his Bible.
    The Church of New Zion’s original building was full to the bursting point, as it was most Sundays. The ancient floor thundered and shook to the pounding of two hundred feet as the faithful responded to the call to “dance their joy before the Lord!” The only soul who did not join in was TJ. From time to time pitying looks were cast his way. The man just didn’t realize all he was missing.
    There was no preacher in the Praise Hall. Those who felt they needed somebody else to talk for them were welcome in the big church across the way, the one with the pretty stained-glass windows and the choir all dressed up in robes and the reverend up there behind his fancy hand-carved wooden banister.
    When the new church had been completed in 1938, a lot of time and talk was spent worrying over what should be done with the old building. Some wanted it for a church social hall, others for a little museum; but the issue never came up for a vote. Long before the talk was over, a decision had been made. It was to be a Praise Hall.
    It took six years to finish the new church. They stopped every time the congregation ran out of money, started back when there was another hundred dollars in the kitty. Everything possible was done by church members, donating labor when the Depression years squeezed their purses dry. Other congregations called them fools for building in the height of the Depression; they held their tongues for the most part, saying only that bad times were the best times to praise the Lord.
    At first it was only the older people who attended the praise meetings, the ones who remembered how it was back before the church had a regular preacher. In the early days a traveling preacher would stop every few months and fill the little church with the word of the Lord. The rest of the time the congregation simply had to make do.
    They danced, they sang, they cried, and they prayed. Those who could would read the Scriptures, while the deacons and elders cared for the needs of the church and the congregation. During the long Sunday services, many of them lasting from dawn to dusk, those simple God-fearing people did the best they could with what they had.
    Most folks were mighty pleased with the new church, to have a regular preacher come in and call their little settlement home. Still, there were some who yearned for the old days, when they did as the Spirit called them, spoke when the Lord told them, ministered as they were led. And after the newness of the church had worn off a little, this group began meeting back in the old hall. Ignoring the criticism of those who called it the way of po’ black folks, their cries of joy rang out loud and clear in the Carolina air.
    But it was the new preacher who finally set the seal of approval on the old Praise Hall.
    â€œThere’s a certain smugness that’s set in among us,” Reverend Taylor said to the congregation about a year after they had moved into the new church. Amos Taylor was then a tall gangly young man, but his eyes glinted with a holy fire behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.
    â€œYessir,” he said, “there’s a lot of people walkin’ around these parts with their noses stuck up in the air. Better watch out, is what I’m here to tell you, else you’re gonna see the Lord come along and slap you awake. You hear what I’m sayin’?”
    He stopped and looked out over his congregation. “Why don’t y’all just try and sit still for a second. You’re always tellin’ your children to do it. Now how about a little of